Fragments
by The Fool's Hope
Summary: One shots inspired by KCS' writing prompts. My responses will probably be completely random and certainly not chronological. Prompt 23: Holmes can be WRONG? :O Prompt 24: Holmes is a man who wears many hats. Prompt 25: A writer's life is a hard one...
1. What's in a name?

**Prompt: Choose a middle name for Mr. Sherlock Holmes.**

_A/N: This was another of those ideas I got at 3:00 am... it sounded good then, I promise!_

* * *

"Bother."

Holmes looked up from whatever he was doing at his chemistry set. "What is it?"

"Oh, it's nothing, really," I sighed. "Just that my middle initial is H, not N. Sometimes I don't think the people at the Strand are even trying to get things right."

Holmes shook his head and turned back to his experiment. "I doubt anyone will notice, old fellow. In any case, middle names are distinctly overrated. I never use mine."

I looked at him quizzically. "What is yours?"

He still didn't look at me, but from what I could see of his expression he looked sorry to have brought it up. "Oh, never mind, Watson. Now let me see..." He became suddenly and suspiciously engrossed in the contents of the beaker before him.

I grinned at him. "Come now, Holmes. Nothing to be ashamed of in a name. What is it?"

He muttered something unintelligible.

"Beg pardon?"

"My middle name," he said testily, finally turning to face me, "is James."

"_James?_" I repeated incredulously, before I could stop myself.

"James," he said bitterly.

"Er... why James?"

"It was my mother's idea--Apparently some distant relative she was fond of was named James. So she chose it as my middle name."

"Well, there's nothing _wrong_ with the name James," I pointed out. "I mean, I suppose it _is _rather too common--sometimes people see the J in my name and assume it's James. Mary would sometimes call me James in front of acquaintances just to see if they'd notice."

"And did they?"

"Usually not. But it's hardly a _bad_ name, Holmes."

"It may not be a bad name for some, Watson, but it is for me," was his reply.

"Well, what is wrong with it?"

"James? As my middle name? 'Sherlock James Holmes.' It sounds daft."

"No it doesn't." I turned it over in my head once or twice, and couldn't supress a smirk. "Well, perhaps a little..."

Holmes glowered at me. "Thank you, Watson."

"Well, take comfort in knowing that when I write about your middle name the Strand will surely get it wrong."

"_Watson--_"

"Only joking, Holmes," I hastened to reassure him, but I could not contain my laughter. He continued to glare at me, but I caught a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.


	2. Stamford

**Prompt: A reunion between Stamford and the famous duo. Any time in their acquaintance, any location, and any genre.**

_A/N: At last! A computer! Apologies for the very late update, dear readers! I was hard pressed to find a computer that I could use for more than fifteen minutes.  
This prompt released a huge assortment of bunnies! Among their number were the "Stamford had to Somehow Get Out of Rooming with Holmes" bunny, the "Stamford has a score to settle with Watson" bunny, the"Stamford Can't do Anything Right" bunny, and the "Stamford is Arthur Conan Doyle" bunny, but many of these were too complicated. I resorted to my tried and true method of coming up with a plot, i.e. staying up too late and writing down whatever my brain came up with. Hopefully this is more original than I'm starting to think it is..._

* * *

Stamford was not an avid reader of the Strand.

He had not heard from his old acquaintance of Bart's since the day he'd stumbeld across him out of the blue. Watson had been looking for decent lodgings at a reasonable price, and said as much. The phrase had been used to Stamford earlier, which surprised him into mentioning the man who had said it. He'd introduced Watson to Sherlock Holmes, and they had decided to try lodging together. Stamford considered himself to be entirely responsible for bringing them together.

It had weighed quite heavily on his conscience ever since.

He had not _meant_ to lead Watson to disaster like he had. It had just been a mistake--a slip of the tongue. He had made every effort to convince Watson that it was a bad idea without actually sounding rude. The man had been in Afghanistan, for the love of heaven, the last thing he needed was to share living quarters with Sherlock Holmes! Stamford had not heard from either of them for several years, but whenever he began remeniscing about the old days he recalled John Watson, and felt dreadfully guilty. He sometimes wondered how long it had lasted, and whether Watson, if he ever saw him again, would pick up the nearest heavy object and hurl it at him as a way of paying back what Stamford had done to him. In any case, Stamford did not expect to see either he nor Holmes ever again.

He was sitting in a bar one night, a bit less sober than was entirely becoming, waiting for it to stop raining. It was not the decent, heavy rainfall of a sturdy cloud that knows what it is doing, but the drizzling of a miserable day, just hard enough to be uncomfortable, but light enough that it was not entirely substantial. And there was fog everywhere. Stamford knew he should have been getting back soon, but he was loathe to go out in this weather. It would be wet and unpleasant out there, but where he was was dry and comfortable, and nothing would disturb him.

It came as rather a shock to him when the door was flung open, and even more of a shock when Watson walked in through it.

Well, not exactly walked. Ran, or scrambled, perhaps. Walking usually happens more slowly.

Stamford gaped at him as he tore towards the counter. "Watson?" he managed, after several long moments.

Watson had thrown himself on his knees and was hastily scrabbling at the panels along the counter. He glanced up at Stamford's voice. "Oh, hullo Stamford. Just a moment..."

He rushed round to the other side of the counter, much to the consternation of the bartender--"'Ere, you can't be--"

"Hah! Found it!" Watson swung a panel back, revealing a tunnel. The bartender gaped. Stamford gaped.

There was the sound of shots being fired, and the door to the bar crashed open once more, revealing the figure of Sherlock Holmes as he charged across the room. "You have it, Watson?" he shouted.

"Right here," the doctor responded, and Holmes leapt over the counter via a barstool and disappeared down the tunnel, Watson close at his heels.

A moment later four police officert escorted two handcuffed men into the room and brought them behind the counter. "Recognize this?" one of them asked. The man in his custody said nothing, and simply glared.

They waited for a couple minutes, and eventually voices echoed up from within the tunnel. Holmes and Watson resurfaced, covered in cobwebs and dust. Following them were half a dozen police officers, three handcuffed criminals, and a very agitated man in an expensive suit. "You devils!" he shouted. "You filthy devils! You slimy, fiendish devils!--"

"Thank you, Mr. Merrison, thank you," said Holmes calmly. "I think we can safely say that these men shall be jailed for a good long time for their crimes. Now please do calm yourself. I daresay you'll be wanting the music box as evidence, Inspector?"

"Indeed I shall, Mr. Holmes," said the small man with pointed features, "But I still cannot see how you knew itw as concealing the key! or how you knew where they were coming and going from!"

Holmes smiled knowingly. "I confess i was lucky on that last point, Lestrade," he said. "I was fortunate enough to have seen the source of the dust found at the original scene of the murder earlier that very day. However, the music box was simplicity itself. There were five--a collection of five music boxes, all similar in appearance, but all playing different songs. Your theory about the note was original, Lestrade, but entirely erroneous. None of the music boxes play pieces in Eb. And it was not the box itself that was valuable, but what it contained. I would advise sealing up that room, Mr. Merrison," he said, turning to the agitated gentleman. "Presumably you do not want its continued use--at least, not for its intended purpose?"

"Indeed not!"

"Now, Lestrade, I propose that you lock these men safely away for the time being. Come by Baker Street later and Watson and I will give you the details on this entire affair."

"Right." The inspector took hold of one of their prisoners. "You lot are in quite a bit of trouble..."

Watson came over and sat next to Stamford. "Hello there, Stamford," he said cheerfully. "Sorry about that--I was in a bit of a hurry. But that's all over now."

"Ah, Stamford," said Holmes, sitting on his other side. "You've done rather well for yourself--good to see that you have something to show for your late nights. I would advise a doctor for your wife's condition--it's certainly not serious, but it could save you both some discomfort."

Stamford looked back and forth from one to the other. "Hello Watson, Holmes." He tried to think of something else to say, but only one thing came to mind. "Er... you two are still sharing living quarters, then?"

"Oh yes," said Watson. "In fact, we have you to thank for that, don't we? It seems like a lifetime ago since we first came to Baker Street."

"Hah! It does indeed." Holmes smiled across at his friend and clapped Stamford on the back. "You've done us a greater service than you can imagine, Stamford, I daresay."

Stamford's head was spinning. He turned to Watson. "You're, er... doing all right?"

"Never better."

Stamford tried to adjust his mind to this new concept, which went against everything he'd supposed ever since that fateful day, and came to a quick conclusion.

"I think I might need another drink."

* * *

_A/N: It's a bit generic, I'm afraid, but I enjoyed writing the conclusion-to-the-mystery scene so much that I couldn't bring myself to change it..._


	3. Spirit of Inquiry

**Prompt: '_Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes - it approaches to coldbloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take it himself with the same readiness.' _****-Use your imagination - need I elaborate?**

_A/N: I got this idea when my dad mentioned how hard it must have been to have Holmes as a younger brother. I imagined him to be somewhere in his teens in the first part of this. It's sort of a meh-ish story, but it's what my muse produced..._

* * *

Mycroft Holmes wanted to die.

He'd never been so ill in all his life. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd vomited, and had given up on moving for the time being, choosing instead to remain kneeling next to the basin. It was a most undignified position, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

His brother returned, bringing him a cool cloth and a glass of water. "Can you get this down?" he asked, kneeling next to Mycroft.

"Why should I be able to? I haven't been able to keep anything down for the past two hours! Sherlock, I'm never going to forgive you for this."

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. I merely wished to observe the effects--"

"You wished to observe the effects? What if it had been deadly?"

"I knew it wasn't deadly. I just didn't know what it _did _do."

"Hah! You _knew_ it would most likely be unpleasant! I'm still not entirely sure it _wasn't _deadly--I've never felt so miserable in all my life."

"I really am sorry."

Mycroft sighed, leaning heavily on his hands. The cool stone beneath his fingers was reassuringly solid, a pleasant contrast to the way the rest of him felt. "Sherlock... Next time you desire to test the effects of a vegetable alkaloid... You can bloody well test it on yourself." Another wave of nausea overcame him, and he quickly positioned himself over the basin.

* * *

Watson laid a sympathetic hand on his friend's shoulder. "How are you feeling, old man?"

"Like the very devil himself is intent upon yanking my insides out through my throat." Holmes was beginning to think he knew just what Mycroft had been going through all those years ago. "I wish I would just die and be done with it."

Watson reached over and poured Holmes a glass of water. "I'd prefer it if you kept your dying to a minimum, Holmes. See if you can drink this."

"There's no point, Watson. I'm dying. At least I hope I'm dying."

"Holmes, what on earth possessed you to try that dreadful stuff on yourself in the first place?"

"I wanted to observe the effects."

"Observe the effects? Well, you've certainly achieved that, but there must be a better way to observe the effects than to swallow some yourself and see what happens."

"I always test things out on myself, if I need a precise observation of the effects."

"In heaven's name, why?"

"Slipping it to others seems to cause some ill will." He felt the effects coming over him again. "Although I daresay I shan't be trying this again anytime soon..." he muttered as he bent over the basin again.

* * *

"Watson... I don't suppose you'd like to give me a hand with this experiment?"

"Certainly." A pause. "Unless it involves observing the effects of a certain substance on a human."

"As it happens..."

"Forget it, Holmes."

* * *

_A/N: Meh..._


	4. Boredom

**Prompt: Use the 'Sherlock Holmes blood test' in some way. Explain why we never hear of it again, use it for the conclusion of a crime, or whatever you wish.**

_A/N: Again, many apologies for the late update! This time it was not due to a lack of computer... it was more due, in fact, to my unfortunate tendency to forget to add a new chapter to the story once I finish typing up a document #blush#.  
This was my creativity's day off, so I was on my own for this one. It's rather short, I'm afraid... but it's all I could come up with :P_

* * *

"Of all the dreary, dispicably dull states this confounded city has ever been in, this is by far the worst," growled Sherlock Holmes by way of greeting as he came downstairs.

"Whatever do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean, Watson, that there is very little use for me or my particular skills as this dullness continues. All crimes are commonplace and easily solved. There seem to be no little problems of interest occuring of late. All is but ordinary, and law abiding, and decidedly boring."

I smiled at his frustrated description. "I am sure many would argue that this late wave of peace is hardly a bad thing, Holmes."

He waved away my comment absently. "It is as well that fewer killers run loose, of course," he agreed sulkily, "but that all activity of interest should cease is absolutely infuriating. An incident does not have to be criminal to have its merits, yet no client has come to our door with a problem of any sort."

I gestured to the paper. "And Scotland Yard has nothing to consult with you about?" I asked. "I read just now that a new lead has arisen in an old case."

His mood, if anything, darkened. "Yes, they have found a new lead," he grumbled. "It points to the victim's cousin--any fool could have seen that he was the most likely suspect from the start, of course, but the Yard proceeded to run off on all sorts of wild goose chases instead. No doubt by not they've enough evidence to arrest the man, though." He glared out the window. "Lestrade announced to me yesterday that he had found some suspicious stains upon some articles of the man's clothing, shoved to the back of his wardrobe. Why he did not simply dispose of the article is beyond me. It used to be that they would come to me for help in gathering evidence in a case such as this, and would present me with a diverting little problem with which to occupy my mind, however elementary it might have been. But now--now they simply use the infallible blood test of my own invention."

I could not help but chuckle at the irony. "Robbed by your own hand, eh, Holmes?"

"It is most trying. On the one hand, I am surely indirectly responsible for the convition of many guilty men; on the other hand, there are fewer problems with which to occupy my attention. No doubt the Yard is still overjoyed with the Sherlock Holmes blood test, but I sometimes wish the blasted thing had never come into existence." He continued to scowl out the window.

I do not posess Holmes' fantastic powers of mind reading, but I could see where his thoughts were straying. I half considered leaving the room, but decided, as I saw him finally take his bottle from the mantlepiece and his syringe from its morocco case with such deliberation, that I would remain silent no longer.

"Which is it today," I asked, "morphine or cocaine?"

_

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__A/N: You know the rest..._


	5. Prudence

**Prompt: _I laughed at this cross-examination. "I keep a bull pup," I said, "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present."_ - What exactly _was_ that other set of vices?**

_A/N: Just watched DANC last night, which gave me this idea when I read the prompt... I couldn't think of any other good vices for Watson, so I just focused on the one. _

* * *

Sherlock Holmes came bounding into the sitting room, in one of the best moods I have ever seen him. I have become accustomed to his mood swings; the periods of calm in which he is moody and ill-tempered, the fierce energy he exhibits when hot on the trail of some criminal, the hours of quiet contemplation with his pipe and violin. This evening marked the end of a particularly knotty problem, which he had just brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and he was feeling justifiably elated. I thought it likely that his habits during the case would catch up with him later tonight, considering he had, as always, neglected food and sleep during the investigation. For the moment, however, he was quite energetic.

"A most intriguing little problem, Watson!" he said excitedly, rubbing his palms together in a satisfied manner. "I would advise it's admission into your little record of publications--there were certain points of merit which would certainly be of some interest to your readers."

My friend's good mood was infectionous, and I found myself smiling at his jubilance. "How exactly did you know that the man's brother had been in the house that day?" I asked.

"The mud, Watson. That particular reddish hue that was present in great quantities surrounding the doorstep during the recent remodeling. He had taken care to brush it from his shoes before coming to join us but not, I noticed, from the cuffs of his trousers. No doubt he is now wishing he had taken more care to keep his clothing immaculate, as he usually does." Holmes cheerfully flung my coat in my direction. "Dinner at Simpson's, Watson?"

My good mood evaporated, and I could feel myself blushing. "I... I can't, Holmes."

He paused in donning his jacket, and raised an eyebrow. "Why ever not, my dear fellow?"

I thought frantically for a moment. "I'm afraid I have a bit of a headache coming on--I should probably just stay here and rest a bit," I muttered.

He stared at me a moment, then crossed the room to sit on the arm of his armchair and look me in the eye. "My dear Watson, falsehood does not become you. What is going on?"

I was about to repeat my headache excuse, but he cut me off. "Watson, in all the time I have known you, you have never complained of a headache unless you were in the midst of a migrane that would have floored a lesser man. Furthermore, when you do have a headache you have a habit of pinching the bridge of your nose, which you have not been doing. Something is troubling you, and I should be much obliged if you would tell me what it is."

I did not meet his eyes. "I'm completely broke, Holmes. I couldn't possibly afford to go out--"

"Is that all?" He clapped me on the shoulder. "It's my treat, my dear fellow."

"Holmes, I couldn't--"

"Nonsense, Watson! The conclusion of this latest case has left me with a pretty sum, and what better way to spend it than on dinner with a friend? Come, Watson, accept a spot of charity this once, and I shall have your company as recompence." He shouted downstairs for Mrs. Hudson to call us a cab, and handed me my coat again, and I felt I could do nothing but accept.

"How did you come to be in this strained position in regrads to your finances?" he asked, as we sped towards Simpson's. In another man this question might be considered insensitive, even offensive, but coming from Holmes it was the kind of inquiry he made as a result of his thirst for exact knowledge. The answer, however, was rather embarassing to me. "It was the card game last night," I finally admitted, feeling myself reddening again. "I'm afraid I was... less prudent than I ought to have been."

He gave me a small half-smile. "Come now, Watson--you are surely not the only person to have found yourself in such a predicament. It is a little unusual for a man of your careful tendencies," he continued offhandedly, completely unaware that I already knew of this incident's contrast to my character and was thoroughly embarassed by it, "but overall really, Watson, it is a rather trivial incident."

His good cheer was impossible to combat, and as the conversation drifted to other matters I forgot the matter, though I was embarassed when Holmes picked up my share of the check.

Two weeks later I was in low spirits, having lost more than I could afford to my fellow card-players the night before. Holmes was working at another chemical experiment, which I fervently hoped would not have the same effect on our curtains that it had last time. I had thought him completely immersed in his work, but suddenly his voice rose from the plethora of test-tubes and beakers. "Bad night, Watson?"

I started, then stared. "It was, Holmes. How did you know?"

He turned. "My dear Watson, I should hope that our years of shared living space would give me _some_ sense of your moods. You were far from jubilant last night, and remain subdued this morning. Thus, I concluded that last night did not go well for you, for some reason."

I flushed again at his statement. "I was betting rather more heavily than I ought," I admitted. It was more embarassing to me than might be readily apparent, for I prided myself upon being a level headed, sensible man. To continually lose sums which were outside my means was not only foolhardy, it put a blemish on my character that I felt humiliated to have revealed.

Holmes seemed to understand this, somehow, despite his usual obliviousness to the embarassment of others. "My dear Watson, you are among the most sensible of men," he said with uncharacteristic gentleness. "The matter should not be attributed to a lack of judgement in all things."

"Thank you, Holmes," I said, genuinely comforted. "It would mean less to me if it did not happen repeatedly, but it seems I am less of a prudent man than I thought I was when it comes to betting."

He thought for a moment. "Perhaps, Watson, we can arrange matters to be less of a risk to your finances."

My checkbook has been locked in his desk drawer ever since.

* * *

_A/N: How do I write my stories, you ask? Apparently I write half of one as soon as I get the prompt, then lose my train of thought and let it sit for the rest of the day before coming back to it. DON'T DO THAT. IT'S BAD FOR THE BRAIN.  
I figured there had to be a reason why Watson's checkbook was locked in Holmes' drawer. So that's where the idea of gambling as a vice came up. For more on that read Chewing Gum's fic, which is awesome and much better written._


	6. Botany

__

**Prompt: How exactly did Watson find out Holmes knew nothing of practical gardening? **

__

_A/N: This turned into a 221b! No one was more surprised than I was, let me tell you :) I've never done one before, either; mostly because for some reason whenever I count words I always, always miscount. I don't know how I ever made it through high school. Then I noticed that FF counts the number of words in a document (heh) so that was no longer a problem! Yay!  
Anyway! This particular prompt was difficult for me because I, like Holmes, have no knowledge of practical gardening. Basically, all I had to work with was: most plants need water and sunlight. That is another reason why this is only 221 words long :P_

_

* * *

__Botany: Variable. Is well up on belladonna, opium, and poisons generally._

I looked up and noticed that Mrs. Hudson had left the door to the hallway open, causing a slight draught. I got up to close it, and noticed a small potted plant in the corner of the hallway. I was fairly sure that it had not been there last week. "Is this your plant?" I called to my fellow lodger, who was in his room.

"An appreciative client of mine left it for me," came the answer. "I thought that would be the best place for it--out of the way."

He had put the plant in the darkest corner of the hallway. "What about sunlight?" I asked.

"What _about_ sunlight?"

"Never mind." I bent and felt the soil. It had the consistancy of sand, and probably hadn't been watered for days. "Not to mention water," I muttered to myself.

I brought the plant downstairs and handed it to Mrs. Hudson, who was quite happy to have something to brighten up the main hallway. I saw her putting the plant in the window as I made my way back to the sitting room.

I sat back down and pulled the half finished list out of my pocket. _Has no knowledge of practical gardening,_ I wrote, under the heading _Botany_.

* * *

_A/N: When it says he knows nothing about practical gardening, I took it to mean _NOTHING _:D_


	7. Safety in Anonymity

**Prompt: From the second chapter of STUD, Holmes tells Watson _"I know well that I have it in me to make my name famous." _But after the Return (EMPT and NORW) for example, Holmes tells Lestrade that _"the work is its own reward"_ and that he wants his name kept completely out of the matter.  
Explain this change of mindset pre-and-post-Return. Give any reason you wish, but be convincing.**

_A/N: I'm a horrible person! I don't think I've responded to even ONE review for this story! A thousand apologies to my dear readers! My excuse? Laziness. #embarrassed# I wish I had some sort of good excuse, but... I really don't.  
So I'd like to take this opportunity to give a billion thank yous to everyone who's been reviewing! I really appreciate the feedback and support! It makes me happy :)

* * *

_

Holmes was obviously quite pleased with the conclusion of the problem in Norwood. No doubt he was glad to learn that there were still criminals worthy of his attention, even without the late Professor Moriarty. I had already outlined the case in my notebook, and planned to write it up fully that evening, but of course I could not publish it without first revealing the story of Holmes' return from the dead. He had not yet told me when it would be permissible to do so. It was also a point of curiosity for me that he did not wish his name to appear in any way in the newspapers with regard to this Norwood business. Of course, he had always maintained that "the work is its own reward," as he put it, but now it seemed he was actively shunning publicity.

I finally confronted him about it, several days later, after he solved a particularly knotty case involving several murders and a stolen brooch on which the fates of three men rested. He had fiercely demanded that his name not be mentioned in relation to the case once the papers gave an account, and I was at a loss as to why this point should be so important to him.

"There may yet be dangerous men who, if they learned that I was still in the land of the living, would take steps to ensure that I did not remain there for long," was his reply, when I placed the question to him. "As it stands, however, I will slowly fade back into London, and bring about justice to those who deserve it without shouting my name from the rooftops. It does not do to put them on their guard."

"You mean that Moran might not have been the only one left of Moriarty's gang?"

"There are a few, though a very few, men who managed to escape the nets," Holmes answered. "None so dangerous as Moran himself--I doubt that any of them ever even had the pleasure of meeting the Professor. But as it stands it would, I feel, be best if they were not given any cause for alarm--such as a published account of my return and presence in London."

This in itself seemed a plausible reason, but I got the sense that there was more to this than met the eye. "And that is all there is of it?" I asked innocently.

"I should think that avoiding the possibility of attempts on one's life should be a good enough reason," he responded, but I noticed that he did not quite meet my eyes. If he had been a stranger it would have been imperceptible, but I had the advantage of knowing him intimately, and was able to spot any discrepancies in his behavior.

"Holmes," I said suspiciously, "Are you keeping something from me in this matter?"

His response was to busy himself lighting his pipe.

"Holmes. Keeping me in the dark for three long years was quite enough, old fellow. What is going on?"

I saw a glimmer of guilt deep in his grey eyes for a moment, though his expression remained unmoved. We sat in silence for a long moment before he sighed and took his pipe out of his mouth. "You are right, Watson. However, I promise you, the reason is of no importance whatsoever--It is a very trivial matter."

"Then why are you so anxious to keep it from me?"

"It is... a trifle embarrassing."

I raised my eyebrows. He avoided my attentive stare for a moment, then met my gaze with a resigned expression.

"You'll recall I was continuing my work as a detective under the alias Sigerson?" I nodded. "I became rather famous rather fast, over the course of those three years. My exploits made it to the London papers, you remember. And though I was careful, I confess I was publicized rather more freely than I should have been.

"It was through this news of my exploits that a young lady learned of my skills as a detective, and she brought me a pretty little problem--her stepfather had sealed up a room in their house, and yet late at night she was certain she heard a noise coming from inside. I took a trip down to the house and found that, to make a long story short, her stepfather was the ringleader of a gang of counterfeiters, and had him arrested. She was quite grateful to me for clearing the matter up, and proceeded to sing my praises to me in a highly exaggerated form." He grimaced at his recollection. "And then--I could not be rid of her."

A snort of laughter escaped me. Holmes glared daggers. "It was not _funny_, Watson. She would not give me a moment's peace. I could not go out without running into her--she called upon me practically every day, and she was constantly underfoot. It was absolutely infuriating. What would drive a woman to behave in such a fashion?"

"Well, Holmes, your talents are quite impressive," I said, trying to smother my laughter. "Though it sounds as though she was rather more impressed than is usual, I daresay."

He glowered at my badly supressed grin. "Quite true, Watson. Eventually I relocated--I settled in Paris for a while, though I kept the name Sigerson." He shot another disgruntled look into the fire. "And she followed me."

"What?"

"She learned where I was because my name had yet again made it into the papers," he said irritably. "When she found me I made it clear that her attentions were unwanted, but that seemed to make no difference. The next time I relocated I adopted a different alias, but again I solved a trifling little mystery and she heard about it--how she did I shall never understand, I'm certain it was not that well publicized. Since then I have made sure that my name does not appear in relation to my cases, and that word of my skills does not make it to print."

It was really too bad of me to laugh so at his expense, but I could not help myself. When I finally regained my composure I looked up to find that his glare had never wavered. "Come now, Holmes," I said, still chuckling. "You cannot pretend to see _no_ humor in the situation."

"It wasn't happening to you," he replied sullenly.

I shook my head, but could not wipe the grin from my face.

It was a very long time before he finally allowed his name to make it into print.

* * *

_A/N: A genuine Sherlockian era fangirl! I figured Holmes had to be running from _something_--and what could possibly be more frightening than a devoted stalker! Rather implausible, but very fun to write :) _


	8. A Fowl Business

**Prompt: Use this phrase somehow, taken at random from the third chapter of STUD: "_...and I am no chicken._" :)**

_A/N: I contemplated turning Holmes into a chicken, just so someone could say this line to him... But I would never have been able to make it work and anyway, Pompey's already turned him into various animals in "More Things that Never Happened to Sherlock Holmes," so I thought I'd allow him to retain his shape for the time being. This was supposed to be shorter, and have more to do with the given line, but it decided to grow into something huge and weird. It could stand on its own with no mention of chickens whatsoever now, but it does technically answer the prompt :) I was too lazy to do any sort of research for this, so if you see any glaring mistakes let me know so I can change it (although again I can't promise that my method of dealing with my mistakes will not involve aliens).  
Again, many many thanks for all your reviews! I really appreciate them! #passes cookies to reviewers#_

* * *

Late one morning in early spring my friend Sherlock Holmes and I sat in our Baker Street quarters arguing good-naturedly about Poe, when I chanced to glance out the window and saw a well dressed young man walking along the street, glancing up at the house numbers. His expression spoke of some private worry, and he toyed with the fingers of his gloves nervously as he walked. "We may have a client in a moment, Holmes," I remarked, pointing the fellow out to him.

"I believe you are correct, Watson," said he, joining me at the window. "Ah yes, he's found us! Well, this is most satisfactory. Perhaps the day has something worthwhile in store."

We hastily tided up the sitting room, which was somewhat disheveled after an enthusiastic search for a file of Holmes' the day before. We succeeded in unveiling the floor, at least, when Mrs. Hudson showed the man from the street into our rooms. He introduced himself to us as Robert Gadling, and we bade him take a seat.

"Now," said Holmes, seating himself in his customary armchair, "tell us what is troubling you. I should not think that a successful newspaper editor with a devoted fiancee to boot should have much to worry about."

The man stared. "How on earth did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?" he gasped.

"You are accustomed to doing a good deal of writing--your shirt cuff proclaims as much. And, of course, you use reading glasses--the indentations on the bridge of your nose alerted me to that. However, you do not need them for general purposes. Not to mention the slight smearing of newsprint along your fingers--it was not overly difficult. As to your young lady, that token in your pocket was not made for you." He gestured to the ladies handkerchief that was sticking out of the man's coat. Mr. Gadling pushed it back down somewhat self-consciously. "Upon your watch chain you have an engraved disc with the initials RG and BP. You do not wear a wedding band, but all the indications point to a long-standing relationship with a woman. A fiancee seemed the most likely."

Mr. Gadling laughed, some of his nervousness easing. "It's very true, Mr. Holmes. I am to be married, to Beatrice Palmer, in two weeks." His gaze turned downwards. "It is partially about Beatrice that I am worried."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Pray tell us, sir, exactly what it is about her is troubling you?"

"Well, sir--for starters, there's her brother-in-law."

"What about her brother-in-law?"

Mr. Gadling fidgeted in his chair. "I do not like to speak ill of those who are not here to defend themselves, Mr. Holmes, but Jed Giles is a despicable person. He is boorish and rude, and has, I have reason to believe, abused his wife in the past. Beatrice's sister Rose is not an outspoken young lady, and I do not believe she would say anything against her husband, but I do not believe she is happy in her marriage. Jed is very controlling and... he does not like Beatrice." His face flushed very slightly at this. "You may think it is but a fancy of mine, Mr. Holmes, but I have seen him look at her with a stare so venomous that there is no doubt in my mind as to his feelings towards her. I have every intention of taking her away from that place as soon as I can--her sister and her husband are still living with their father, you see, on that estate. But what is more troubling to me, the reason I came to see you, is an incident which occurred a couple days ago.

"I was staying at my fiancee'sestate--I live in the town nearby--and we had retired for the night. For some reason, I found it impossible to sleep that night, and had the idea of fetching a book from the library. I took a candle and made my way along the hall when I chanced to see a glimmering of light coming from under the door to the staircase that lead to the attic. I thought it odd, for the attic is never in use--in fact, the staircase is most unsafe. It has never been repaired, for the family has had no use for it in the past. I opened the door and indeed, the staircase was quite unusable--half the steps were missing entirely. But the light shone from under the door at the top of the stairs all the same. I'd half a mind to fetch Mr. Palmer and ask him what the devil was going on. Just then I heard the most terrible, frightening sound; a blood-curdling, inhuman screech. It was more horrifying than anything I have ever heard, and I am no chicken, but I was absolutely petrified. I practically fled to Mr. Palmer's rooms and roused him, begging him to come with me--apparently he had heard nothing--but when we came to the door again there was no noise, and there was no light from under the attic door. My future father-in-law thought it likely that I had had some sort of nightmare, and persuaded me to think no more of it--but I am sure of what I heard, Mr. Holmes, and what I saw! No one else seemed to be disturbed by it. I have said nothing to Beatrice, for I don't want to give her any cause for worry. But it has been weighing on my mind, sir, and I shall not be content until I have learned the secret behind these matters."

My friend's eyes were gleaming; I could sense that he was much intrigued by this mystery. "Tell me, Mr. Gadling--what do you know of the financial circumstances in which your fiancee and her sister find themselves?"

"They are dependant on their father, for the moment, but I do know that their mother left them each a considerable sum of money--to be divided between them at a certian time. I'm afraid I do not know much about their financial situation--but it has never mattered to me, Mr. Holmes, for I am more than capable of providing for myself and my future wife."

"No doubt, no doubt," said Holmes with a smile. "The girl is a lucky one to have such a capable fiance. I do believe, Mr. Gadling, that we can be of some use to you in this matter. Is there a time at which we could call upon the estate when the unpleasant Mr. Giles will not be in the way?"

"Why, yes... if you come early tomorrow, both he and his wife will be away, as will Mr. Palmer. I'll meet you at the train station."

"Very good, then," Holmes said, turning away from our visitor and selecting his favorite pipe from the pipe-rack. "We shall see you tomorrow morning." I showed Mr. Giles to the door and bid him good day, then turned to Holmes, who still had his back to me. I knew better than to interrupt him, so I sat in silence while he pondered the problem, pulling his thoughts out one by one and holding them to the light, each one visible to me only as a wisp of smoke from his lips. Eventually his eyes focused again, and his mind returned to the realm of reality. "Well, Watson, it seems a strange incident," he said, meeting my gaze for the first time in a half hour. "What do you make of it?"

"I am completely at a loss, Holmes. I can see no explanation for the strange event, but to me it stinks of treachery."

"Treachery indeed, Watson. I fear these are rather deep waters. Yet I believe that greed is the root of the problem, as it is with so many incidents."

"The will, you mean." He nodded. "You think someone is trying to get at the inheritance?"

"I do. Do the circumstances remind you of anything, Watson?"

I gave the matter some thought. "It's rather similar to the matter of the speckled band, isn't it?"

"That was my thought also. Doctor Roylott was so anxious not to be deprived of his money that he was willing to kill both his stepdaughters in order to keep it. The parallel is not exact, of course, but it is similar, and I have noticed that human nature tends to run in similar veins. Well, we shall see. In the meantime, we have for once allowed ourselves more than an hour for packing, so I suggest we begin on that in anticipation of our journey. We shall stay at a local inn, I think, nearby the estate. Oh and Watson, if you would be so good as to bring your revolver, I would be much obliged. It does not hurt to take precautions."

* * *

We arrived at the station at seven the next morning and were greeted by Mr. Gadling. As we drove down to the estate I was struck by the pleasant atmosphere exuded by the countryside. It was difficult to imagine secretive and devilish deeds being committed in such a lovely place. Holmes had, of course, remarked before that the country was a more dangerous place for crime than the city, but I was still inclined to view the scenery with appreciation, and could not share his morbid views on the matter.

The house was large and quite luxuriant, with a magnificent spread of trees along the wall. Mr. Gadling lead us inside, and the interior was just as magnificent as the grounds. It seemed that the occupants of the house were less concerned with appearances than was usual in the upper class, however, for there was a vast spread of books and papers across three tables in one room, which Mr. Gadling told us was the library. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the floor in Baker Street, I noticed with some amusement. Our business, however, lay on the second floor, and we made our way up a large staircase to the landing. Mr. Gadling lead us to a door on the far end of the hall, pointing out the one next to it as Mr. Giles' room, and the one next to that as his own. He swung open the door. What he had said was entirely true--the stairs were unusable, and though Holmes did make an attempt to reach the door on the landing above it proved to be quite impossible, as the staircase was long, and more than half of it was broken away.

"Why was this not repaired,?" I asked. "Surely the Palmers have the means."

"The means, but not the motive," laughed Mr. Gadling. "Mr. Palmer is a practical man. He knows that there is nothing in the attic, and that no one should have any cause to go up there, so he saw no sense in having the staircase repaired. However, it seems someone has seen fit to go up there anyway."

"Quite so," said Holmes, getting to his feet and straightening his jacket after another spirited attempt to pass the impassable staircase. "However, they did not come this way. Would it be possible for us to quickly inspect Mr. Giles' room?"

"Certainly." Mr. Gadling closed the door to the attic staircase and let us into the door next to it. The room was full of foreign artifacts, mostly Asian from what I could see. I recognized several of Indian make, and at least one Chineese sculpture.

"Yes, Mr. Giles is a well-traveled man," said Mr. Gadling, noting my observation. "He has been to most of Asia--China, India, even as far as Japan. What you see are tokens of his travels."

Holmes had glanced over the various artifacts, then proceeded to examine one wall minutely, running a finger along the corner where the floor met the wall, then stretching as far up as he could to the ceiling and probing with his fingers, his grey eyes darting every which way. Once he had made quite a thorough examination of the wall he went over to the window and threw it open, leaning out as far as he could. He ducked back in and motioned me forward. "Lend me your arm, Watson," he said, gripping my hand tightly. "I have no wish to topple from this height." I held on to him as he leaned all the way out the window, looking all along the side of the house and up at the attic windows. A moment later he gave a small "ha!" of satisfaction and pulled himself back in. "Now, Mr. Gadling, would you mind showing us your future wife's room?" he asked.

Mr. Gadling looked surprised, but he lead us along to the other side of the hallway, showing us into the young lady's room. Holmes stepped in, glanced around for a minute, then left, apparently satisfied. "We shall not take up any more of your time, Mr. Gadling," he said, heading back towards the main staircase. "We shall be at your local inn if you need us. Until then, I advise you to keep a watchful eye on this Mr. Giles. You were quite right to be wary of him."

* * *

_A/N: Part II starts here! #waves flag#_

* * *

We left the house, I no clearer on events than when I had entered, but Holmes had apparently seen something I had not, as far as could be judged by his good mood. Instead of leaving the grounds directly he led me around to the back of the house, looking up at the attic window for a while. He did not enlighten me as to his thoughts, but it seemed clear to me that he had unraveled at least part of this affair. Finally he turned away. As we were leaving the estate Holmes paused by one of the trees. "Well, that is peculiar," said he. "There is freshly turned earth here." And indeed, the soil he was prodding with his stick had recently been dug up.

"What does it mean?" I asked.

"One can only speculate at this time, I'm afraid," was his answer. "However, I believe we shall have a reason in time, Watson. Let us now retire to the nearest public house. It is possible that someone there knows something of this Palmer family."

We found ourselves in a friendly tavern in the nearby town. Holmes was in a cheerful frame of mind, it seemed, and we chatted for some time with the talkative barman about the town before my friend steered the topic of conversation towards the Palmer daughters.

"Likable enough, they are," the man told us in response to our innocently curious questioning. "The old man's a nice fellow, and his daughters. Twins, they are. Beatrice Palmer is getting married soon, we hear. To young Robert Gadling."

"They're twins?" said Holmes.

"They'll be turning twenty-one in about a week, I think," said the man. "I hear from their housemaid that that's when they'll be coming into some money, too--left to them by their mother, for them to split when they reached their twenty first year. It was near their place that that business happened, you know."

"Business?"

"Some low-life wanderer was found dead, sprawled across a road in the dead of night. We figure he must've taken mightily ill all of a sudden, for he'd seemed to be in the picture of health. Couldn't find any reason why he'd be dead. Seems the life was just plucked out of him."

"Really," said Holmes, catching my eye. "Oh dear, is that the time--we must be on our way, Watson."

"The plot thickens," I said, once we were outside.

"It does indeed, Watson! We should verify our talkative barkeep's story about the will, but I'm afraid I do not doubt it's validity. Back to Mr. Gadling, then!"

We had not reached the house, however, when Mr. Gadling met us from the other direction. He looked rather pale, and his brow was furrowed. "Whatever is the matter?" I asked.

"I--it's nothing, really--well, it's not nothing--you see, Beatrice has taken ill. She's resting up at the house now."

"Ill?" said Holmes sharply. "What sort of illness?"

"Upon returning to the house, she says she just felt very dizzy, and had to lie down," said Mr. Gadling. "She's been asleep for a couple hours, and is still very drowsy, but she says she'll be fine. Her sister is tending to her now, and--well, I suppose it's really nothing to worry about. This whole matter has had me rather on edge, I'm afraid."

"May we speak with her, Mr. Gadling?" asked Holmes. "I believe she could be of some help to us. And, of course, it could not hurt to have a doctor examine her," he added, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Of course, I'll bring you down--I wonder, though, Mr. Holmes, if we could keep the real reason for your presence here between ourselves? I do not want Mr. Palmer or anyone to think that I'm, well, making too much of a trifle."

"You may rely on us, sir," said Holmes, and we proceeded back to the house.

Miss Beatrice Palmer was lying in her room, looking rather pale and rather drowsy, but she was quite alert enough to sit up slightly as we entered and greet us. Mr. Gadling hastened to her side and told her to lie back down. He made introductions, and I sat on the lady's other side and examined her briefly.

"Miss Palmer, I have heard that the terms of your mother's will are to be seen through quite soon," said Holmes.

"Yes, when my sister and I turn twenty-one," was her reply.

"Hm. And this inheritance is to be divided between the two of you?"

"It is."

"Miss Palmer, have you any idea what brought about this sudden attack of dizziness?"

"I really could not say, Mr. Holmes. I suppose I must have just been tired."

"Did you eat anything out of the ordinairy?" I asked her, feeling her pulse. It was a bit weaker than seemed usual, but I doubted that it would last.

"Nothing, Doctor. I ate with the family at breakfast, and an apple out of that fruit bowl--" here she gestured to a basket of fruit on her bedside table, with a small card apparently offering congratulations next to it--"but other than that I really haven't eaten at all."

At that moment the door opened and another girl walked in. She was similar in appearance to Beatrice Palmer, but thinner, with a strange hardness in her eyes. "Ah, Rose," said Mr. Gadling, "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor Watson. I've asked the Doctor to step in and just have a look at Beatrice."

She said nothing, but turned her hard gaze onto Mr. Gadling and her sister. I could not read her expression, but something in her eyes troubled me.

"Well, I suppose we should not take up any more of your time," said Holmes. "Are you finished, Watson?"

"All I can advise is bed rest for the remainder of the day," I told Mr. Gadling and his fiancee. "I don't doubt that you'll be perfectly all right, given time."

"Well, Watson, these waters are deeper than I'd expected," remarked Holmes as we left the estate. "What did you find wrong with the girl?"

"Her pulse was weaker than it should have been," I answered, "and she was chilled, it seemed. But I don't think she's in any real danger now."

"Hmm. Not from illness, at any rate," said Holmes thoughtfully.

"You think someone will try to kill her?" I asked.

"Perhaps, Watson. I hope not, but I cannot deny my instincts."

We returned to the tavern which we had only just left, and sat together in a quiet corner. "You think there's something to the illness?" I asked softly.

"Again, I can only speculate... but I am inclined to think that it's a bit more than a coincidence. The only apparent motive, of course, is the money. The real question we must answer is, how?"

He pulled out a cigarette and began to smoke thoughtfully again, his eyes unseeing. His quiet contemplation was interrupted, however, by a rather large man with a mane of bushy blonde hair and cold, black eyes, who walked in the door and made for our table. "You Mister Sherlock Holmes?" he asked angrily.

Holmes blinked and looked up at our visitor. "I am, sir, but I fear you have the advantage of me."

The man glowered. "Jed Giles is my name, sir, and I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my business!"

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I was not aware that it was your business I was investigating. Would you care to enlighten us as to how you are involved in this affair?"

"Now see here, Mr. Smarty. I've heard of you--always poking and prying where you're not wanted. Just you go back where you came from, or I'll see to it that you're sorry you didn't."

"It's a funny thing, Mr. Giles," said Holmes languidly. "I was just thinking that you might be rather sorry I didn't, too."

The large man turned bright red. "You trying to frighten me, sir? I'll have you know I am no chicken, and it's you that ought to be afraid!" He drew back a huge fist, making me leap to my feet, but in another moment he seemed to think better of it and lowered his hand. "I'll only tell you once, Mister Meddler. You're not wanted here." With that he stormed out.

"What an amiable person," said Holmes, as calm as ever. The stares we had attracted slowly turned away, though we could still feel the gazes of people's thoughts upon us for as long as we remained in the room. Holmes continued to smoke in silence for a while, then shook his head. "It's no good, Watson. We shall be needed on hand tonight, I fear. No sleep for us, but perhaps we will see a tragedy averted."

We made a quick stop at the police headquarters. Holmes went in alone, and came back looking rather disgruntled. "Worse than Gregson, Watson," he muttered to me, shooting a glare behind us. "Still, we shall have two police constables nearby... perhaps there will be no need for their assistance, but I fear that is unlikely."

The air was tinged with darkness by the time we left. We could see the house peeking out from above the trees, looking rather more sinister than it had first appeared to us. Holmes and I went around to the back of the house and pitched pebbles at Mr. Gadling's window until he stuck his head out. "What on earth's going on?"

"Let us in," replied Holmes, "without being seen."

In another minute we were inside. "You're lucky you came when you did," said Mr. Gadling, when we were all back in his room. "Everyone else is still in the sitting room, except for Beatrice, of course. What the deuce is the matter?"

"I have reason to believe that there is danger approaching. I will not tell you all yet, but I must ask that you do as I tell you. Your fiancee can be moved into your room for tonight, without the knowledge of anyone else, correct?"

"I--well, I suppose so, but--"

"Good. We will spend the night in her room. Now, you must not ask questions yet. All will be revealed to you quite soon."

We remained hidden in Gadling's room until the rest of the house had gone to bed. Mr. Gadling led Miss Palmer, who was good enough to do as we asked without question, into his own room. Holmes and I crept into hers. We made an arrangement of pillows that looked, in the dark, as though the bed was occupied, and sat on the floor to wait.

The night slunk slowly onwards. The darkness was smothering, enveloping myself and my companion in a cold, unforgiving blanket, relieved only by the occasional shaft of moonlight between the clouds. More than once some slight noise outside made me jump, and I could sense that Holmes too was rather on edge. It came almost as a relief to hear the creak of a floorboard as someone slipped out of bed and crept down the hallway.

We both stiffened at the noise, which was steadily drawing closer. Holmes gripped my wrist, and we both silently stood. The footsteps paused outside the door, and the knob slowly turned. A shadowy figure slipped in and bent over the bed. In an instant Holmes leapt from the corner and was upon the figure. I caught a glint of something silvery in the hand, which lashed out towards my friend, but he ducked away and blew upon a police whistle. I seized the wrist, which thrust towards me, but I managed to wrest the object from the hand and throw it onto the bed. I heard the striking of a match, and a moment later Holmes had lit a candle.

We both stared into the face of Rose Giles, who was pale as a sheet and shaking with anger. "Did she get you, Watson?" asked Holmes urgently.

"No, she missed. It's on the bed."

"Good man." Holmes picked up the syringe and held it to the candlelight. "Poison, I suppose, undetectable by modern methods. It never ceases to amaze me how low humanity can stoop--to be willing to murder a member of your own family for greed alone is most despicable. Well, Watson, I have made a fool of myself, I fear. I was fully expecting to encounter Mr. Giles tonight."

The door flew open again, and an older man in a blue dressing gown came rushing in, followed closely by Mr. Gadling and Beatrice Palmer. "What the devil's going on?" he demanded. "Rose? What on earth's been happening?"

The two police constables chose that moment to enter the scene. "Well, Mr. Holmes?" asked one. "Was there that murder attempt you were talking about?"

"There was," said Holmes, motioning to the woman I was still holding. "Mrs. Rose Giles, Beatrice Palmer's sister, guilty of attempted murder."

The constables gaped. "Mrs. Giles?"

"Her indeed. This syringe is, I have every reason to believe, filled with poison. That is where her husband comes in. Ah, here's the very man now!"

Mr. Giles had come up behind the party, his face a mask of fury. With a wordless roar he hurled himself at Holmes, only to be stopped by the uniformed men. "Come now, none of that, Mr. Giles," said Holmes, shaking his head. "May I suggest the derbies for these two, if you don't mind? I daresay it's warranted."

The officers handcuffed Mr. Giles readily, but hesitated for Rose Giles. "Yes, I know she's a woman," said Holmes irritably. "She also happens to be a cold-blooded murderer."

"Perhaps she was forced into it," said Mr. Palmer, who was looking very pale. "Perhaps her husband made her do it."

"Forced her?" cried Mr. Giles, "It was her idea!"

"Shut up, Jed!" the woman hissed.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Interesting turn of events, is it not, Watson?" he murmered to me. "I believe what Mr. Giles says is the truth," he said to the assembled company. "Mr. Gadling, you were under the impression that Mrs. Giles lived in fear of her husband. We had all shared similar thoughts. However, that appears not to be the case after all. It really is rather obvious--no one else would have access to Miss Palmer as her sister. I really am most disappointed that I did not see it myself."

"But Mr. Holmes," said Gadling, "you haven't explained what is going on!"

"Ah. It is really a most elementary case, gentlemen. Very well, then. Mr. and Mrs. Giles wished to have the entirety of the inheritance, left to the sisters by their mother, for themselves. Beatrice Palmer was rather in the way in that respect. So Mr. Giles concocted a poison, to be used on Beatrice Palmer. I have reason to believe he tested it on a certain beggar, who was found dead near here. Satisfied that it worked, his wife proceeded to inject the poison into an apple in the fruit bowl on Miss Palmer's bedside table." He plucked a specimen of fruit from the bowl and held it up. "However, for whatever reason, that proved to be insufficient--perhaps Miss Palmer did not eat the entire apple, or there was not enough poison injected. In any case, she was not given nearly enough, instead succumbing to only a feeling of dizziness and drowsiness. Mrs. Giles was here tonight to finish the job. Now, if you would all accompany me to Mr. Giles' room, I believe we can solve another aspect of this affair."

Holmes lead the company down the hallway to Giles' room, and immediately flung wide the window. "Mr. Giles was using the abandoned attic as a laboratory," he announced. "Mr. Gadling observed a light coming from the doorway to the staircase, and heard a rather singular noise. I believe you described it as a shriek of pain, Mr. Gadling. I decided that it was possible that neither of you--" here he gestured to Beatrice Palmer and Mr. Palmer--"could have slept through a noise such as that, but Mr. and Mrs. Giles, being right next to the attic, would be less likely to do so. Consequently, they must have known the cause. Now, we have determined that the staircase is quite unusable. However, I believe that there is a way to reach the attic from the roof." With that, Holmes leaned out the window and, after scrabbling about with one hand for some moments, gave an exclaimation of satisfaction and levered himself out the window onto the roof. "There is a jutting corner on which it is possible to pull oneself up," his voice called from the roof. I investigated with my hands and found the purchace of which he spoke. With a little manouvering I found a foothold on the side of the building and pushed myself onto the slanted roof after Holmes. We walked carefully across to the outer wall of the attic, where a window allowed us access.

My first feeling was one of amazement. The room was dominated by a huge table, on which stood row upon row of chemical equipment. A shelf above the table held a number of glass jars and bottles. Holmes picked one up and read the label, letting out a low whistle. "He has gathered rather remarkable substances on his travels to Asia," he remarked, reading another. "Most of these are very rare, and many are poisonous. However, I believe the poison used was of his own making--it would have to be absolutely untracable." He turned away from the table and proceeded towards a shape covered in a large sheet, which he whipped off.

I stared. "Monkeys?"

"Presumably for him to test various chemicals on. Kept sedated, I see... probably only allowed to awaken at night. And some of them have been muted, you see?" He pointed to one with a careful slash below the throat. "Mr. Gadling's phantom screech must have come from one of these." He drew a sheet from another cage, and he raised an eyebrow. "Chickens, Watson. All dead. Presumably he used chickens for some sort of testing, kept under the blanket to keep them quiet, but his tests killed the birds."

"What a fowl business!"

"Indeed. And I have no doubt that if we excavated the spot which had been dug up recently we should find at least one monkey corpse." His brow furrowed suddenly, and he turned and glared at me. "Watson, did you just say "_foul_ business" or _"fowl_ business"?" he asked suspiciously.

"Well, um, actually..."

"Watson, if you _ever _make such an abhorrent, disgusting pun ever again, I swear I shall throw you out of Baker Street and ship your belongings to deepest Africa."

"Sorry, Holmes."

We climbed back down the roof and through Mr. Giles' window, where we related to the assembled company what we had found in the attic room. One of the constables ascended to see for himself, and returned looking rather pale. The two escorted Mr. and Mrs. Giles out of the house, while Holmes and I remained to speak with Mr. Palmer and his daughter, and Mr. Gadling.

"I still cannot believe that Rose would kill," said Beatrice softly.

"She was caught with the syringe in her hand," said Mr. Gadling. "Jed's pet hobby was chemistry--apparently he was testing out various substances on chickens and monkeys. But tonight he and his wife were testing poison."

"And I am no chicken," said Beatrice softly.

Holmes lit another cigarette. "It was really a most elementary case," he said to me, blowing a wisp of smoke into the air. "But it was not without some points of interest. If anything, it certainly taught us to remember that the term "weaker sex" can be misleading. I suppose it is a lesson not to be taken in by appearances. Now, Watson, I believe there is a train leaving this morning. We can try to catch up on some of our sleep on the ride back to London."

So it was that the singular affair presented to us by Mr. Robert Gadling was concluded. Recently we recieved word that Mr. Gadling and Miss Palmer were married and are living happily with the young lady's father. Miss Palmer recieved her inheritance, and she and her husband have the means to live quite comfortably for years to come.

* * *

_A/N: Well, that was weird... I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that I have artistic lisence... so even though some bits of this don't make any sort of sense, they're still allowed to be here. (even though some bits were _really_ flimsy...) I'm afraid I made this one rather too obvious--of _course_ the jerk has to be the guilty party!--but I hope my little twist was helpful in easing the predictability. _  
_I was doing my best to write in a really ACD-esque mode for this prompt, with mixed results. Unfortunately, I realized about halfway through that he had already written _The Speckled Band,_ and I would have to write a _different_ story. And the chicken line really had nothing to do with it. But... you know... whatever. The only time I knowingly slipped from the canonical writing mode was for the foul/fowl pun--because I COULDN'T RESIST!! YOU KNOW YOU COULDN'T HAVE IF IT HAD BEEN YOU! So, in case anyone reads these long-winded author's notes, I know it was OOC, but it was too much fun to leave out XD  
Apologies in advance to anyone who was confused by the editing-of-the-chapter thing, but I wanted to keep all prompt responses corresponding with the prompt numbers. Otherwise it probably would have driven me insane.  
Again, many thanks to everyone who's reviewed! and extra special thanks to Pompey, for turning Holmes into a chicken. It had to be done XD_


	9. Reflections

**Prompt: Why exactly _did _Holmes ask Watson along on the Drebber murder?**

_A/N: For those who have not seen, chapter 8 is now complete! And, once again, I find myself behind on the prompts! This one should have gone up much earlier, to tell the truth, but it just wasn't coming. I shall put up my answer to today's prompt as early as possible tomorrow.  
I've known my answer to this prompt for quite a while--it's not very complicated--but my manner of writing it definitely took me by surprise. It's quite melancholy, and I think, possibly, just a tad clichéd? But I thrive on cliché, I'm afraid, and anyway, I was homesick for imagery and metaphor land, which I haven't gotten the chance to visit for far too long. Tell me what you think? #puppy eyes#  
Just a note, FF has been smashing my words together again, so apologies if there are spaces missing (grrrr...)._

* * *

The police inspector shook my hand. "Well done again, sir. You're making quite a name for yourself, here--are you sure you wouldn't consider joining the official force?"

I supressed my expression of disgust and politely shook my head. "I am quite happy to continue working privately. If you are in need of assistance in some other little case of yours, however, you may drop in on us at any time."

The man shrugged. "Ah, well. You know your business, I suppose, sir. If you're sure..."

"Entirely. Don't hesitate to ask if I can be of some further use to you in the future."

I allowed myself a small smile as he closed the door. Join the official force indeed.

I retreated back into my rooms and seized my pipe, searching idly for matches. Another case closed, another week or so of boredom, chemistry, and research into coal-tar derivitaves until another one happened my way. There had not been many so far, but the little inspector who had just left seemed to be catching on to the fact that I could be of some use to him in the future. I smirked to myself around my pipe. In many ways he reminded me of Lestrade. Heaven forbid that there should be _two_ of him in law enforcement.

I had found, over the years, that I could not keep away from the crimes. I was constantly reading of them, constantly making connections and drawing conclusions. Mycroft had suggested, when I was still in school, that I work for the Yard, but of course I resisted. I was entirely unsuited to having imbicillic co-workers. It did not do to have incompetents underfoot during an investigation. In any case, I had no desire but to use my deductive skills--If I was the only person I needed--as I alwas have been--I would work alone.

I heaved a sigh, blowing a lone wisp of smoke into the air, where it hung for a moment before dissipating, as quickly as a fragment of a forgotten dream. That wasn't true now, was it? Working alone meant working without anyone else.

_I was discussing the finer points of deduction with my still relatively new flatmate. "What ineffable twaddle!" he had exclaimed, upon reading my article which I had published in a lesser known magazine, and I proceeded to debate the subject with him, with more than a little private satisfaction. I had noticed that he was most curious about my profession. Curiosity is an admirable quality--it leads to questions, which lead to answers. However, he had not questioned me as to my profession, probably to avoid being rude. That is, of course, typical of Watson. He would be the last man on earth to risk offending someone, no matter what the provocation._

The smoke spiraled upwards, glowing softly in a gentle sunbeam before dissolving, leaving only emptiness in its wake. Lost in thought, I stared blankly into the vast nothingness, the vast nothingness staring blankly back.

_"But do you mean to say," he said, "that without leaving your room you can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although they have seen every detail for themselves?"_

_"Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way."_

_He was incredulous--many men were--but genuinely intrigued, his curiosity dragging him further into the idea of simple deduction. He did not possess my singular gift, of course, but his interest was gratifying._

The days had been feeling longer of late--not by any astronomical or seasonal factor, but by a mental one. Time seemed to be stretched more thinly, somehow. There was more of it to go around--more to pass, more to save, more to spend, more to waste. It had an almost physical strain--I proceeded from sunrise to sunset with growing weariness, as time continued to spin onwards to its own eternal rhythm. Every little thing that I did seemed to take no time at all, leaving me with vast quantities for which I had no use.

_"'Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.'"_

_He was rather astonished. But also, I could see, struck by the simplicity of the chain of reasoning, and proclaimed as much a moment later. It really was rather simple, as was everything once explained. Of course, he would think of Dupin and Lecoq--what literature has done to the science of deduction is most unspeakable. One cannot blame the fellow, really, for having had no prior experience with the true art of observation and deduction save what he has read, he cannot be expected to see them as the stand-offish incompetents that they are. _

There was a soft rapping at the door, pulling me out of my reverie. I unenthusiastically pushed myself to my feet and strode across the room, my soft, almost impreceptible footsteps echoing in my mind through the emptiness of the room. I pulled the door open to find a young woman standing outside--she lived on limited means and made a living as a typist, and apparently had an issue which was troubling her, for her face was drawn and tight with worry. I stared down at my visitor, who seemed to be composing herself, before finally speaking.

"Are you Mr. Sigerson?"

_He was no doubt thinking me unbearably concieted, after my unmerciful tirade against two literary heroes whom he had apparently held in high esteem. As I continued to complain, rather petulantly, I suppose, that there were no more crimes and criminals, I could see annoyance written on his face, but tolerance, as well. A most long-suffering soul, he was. I probably owed it to him to be more agreeable in the future. _

_He endeavoured to change the subject, then--he pointed out a fellow on the street, a retired sergeant of the marines, and wondered casually what he was looking for. My offhand mannar of tossing out his profession seemed to irritate my fellow lodger--probably he thought I was merely showing off, attempting to prove my point about deduction to him. My intent was to give a demonstration of the effect which can be produced by rapid deduction--although there was more than a slight element of showing off in my observation, I admit. It was enjoyable to have a fresh mind to encounter my particular skill. I was especially pleased when the man, as it happened, proved to be looking for us, and the glimpse I caught of Watson's expression--a combination of shock and admiration--was a pleasant bonus, though I never would have admitted as such._

I invited her inside, though I had little idea what she could possibly want with me. "My brother is the police inspector," she explained, once she was inside. "He's told me of your remarkable gifts--I know you have helped the police force on occasion, but I was wondering--do you do private cases?"

"I am a researcher," I said coldly, keeping with my main persona. "Perhaps the police force has found my assistance helpful in the past, but--"

"It's just that there's been a strange incident, and I don't know what to make of it," she said, her eyes wide.

"Very well," I sighed, and sat down. "Tell us what is troubling you."

_The letter contained news of a murder--Gregson was in over his head, as always, and that both he and Lestrade were on the case was probably more of a hindrance than a help--they would be spending their energy on their petty rivalry, instead of concentrating on the case. Then again, it might motivate them both to new lengths. I was in half a mind not to go at all, in truth--there would be nothing in it for me, when all's said and done, and I found myself in one of my least motivated states as I read the plea for assistance. Watson, however, was in another mind. "Surely there is not a moment to lose," he said, and while I was not entirely inclined to agree with him I appreciated his enthusiasm for the case. _

_He was becoming quite interested in the science of deduction, I could see--not merely being dazzled by my deductions, as so many were, but genuinely appreciative of my train of thought, my methods, in determining such facts about an individual through observation of certain details. I found it quite gratifying to have such an audience, with an intelligent curiosity as to the processes behind the abilities. Perhaps we could both benefit from further demonstration. _

_"Get your hat."_

_"You wish me to come?"_

_"If you have nothing better to do."_

The woman's narrative was not intriguing, and she herself seemed to be among the most unobservant and foolish of women. She described her position, and in some detail a man who had been seen hanging about her workplace, wearing tinted glasses and a wide-brimmed hat. A suspicious looking character, she said. I refrained from pointing out that anyone who took such pains to hide their face would come across as a "suspicious-looking character," and listened to her story. The man had stopped coming three days ago, and she has not seen him since. "And I did not want to ask my brother about it, in case he thought I was making too much of a trifle."

"And the man has not appeared since that day?"

"No, he hasn't, and I'm most curious--do you suppose you could come to have a look around?"

"I sincerely doubt that we would gain anything by accompanying you."

Her brow furrowed. "Why do you keep refering to yourself in the plural?"

_The matter was not the simple one I had expected, much to my satisfaction. I spent a good deal of time looking over the room--there was much to be found on our murderer, and Lestrade's discovery of the word "RACHE" written on the wall (and of course his subsequent deductions on the woman Rachel) added extra flavour to an already most singular occurance. I was inclined to be rather sarcastic in dealing with Gregson and Lestrade, for with both on the case, and each so obviously vying for the upper hand, it was difficult to see how they'd managed to get anything done at all. I was pleased to see Watson's continued interest in the case and in my methods, for he professed amazement at my deductions made from the room. Most of them had been entirely elementary, but it added new flavour to the business to have one's art so obviously appreciated. I also found him quite articulate in summing up the particulars of the case, which had many points that remained quite obscure. I ran over the details of the case with him, turning the information over in my own mind as I did so, and while I was fairly certain of the course of events which had taken place, I was infinitely curious as to the little portions of the business which were not revealed in my examination of the room._

_The doctor's admiration of my abilities did not wane, as I was privately expecting, but seemed to grow, much to my delight. The more he saw of my work the more intrigued he was, and I found that quality most agreeable._

"The man you were seeing was your fiance," I said blandly, ignoring her question. "He's rather a jealous man, is he not? A jealous man who has never met your cousin. I would suggest that you introduce them before this misunderstanding runs away with you."

I heaved a sigh of relief as I closed the door behind her. Of all the shows of stupidity that the human race had put on, she was among the worst. Her overly-talkative nature had no doubt gotten her into trouble before. One could only hope that she would learn one of these days.

I returned to my pipe in a sour mood.

_Watson's interest in my cases continued, well beyond the Drebber murder. His interest was enough for him to publish an account of the case--I really could not congratulate him upon it, unfortunately, and said as much, but I was privately pleased with his account as well--it was interesting for me to see in his writing what he thought of my deductions. I asked for his assistance on several other cases, and found to my delight that he acted marvelously as a companion--a sounding board for when I needed a sounding board, silent company for when I was deep in thought, lost to the world. It became habit for me to incluce him in my adventures, and he, for his part, was eager to be of assistance in any way he could. Certainly his skills as a marksman proved invaluable several times on some of the more dangerous cases, and his steadfast personality and common sense served to keep me grounded when I needed it. Over time acquaintances became friends, and friendship only strengthened, until he was so much a part of my life I could hardly remember a time without him. _

Another day would come tomorrow, much like this one. If only I could have some news, some word from London, that I could return. I missed London, more than I ever thought I would. I had lived many places over the last three years, but Baker Street was my home.

I closed my eyes and allowed myself to confess, in the very furthest depths of my soul, what I had been trying with varying degrees of difficulty to forget: I truly, painfully, undoubtedly, missed my Watson.

_I was not sure what the mystery held in store for me, that day, well after our Study in Scarlet had taken place, but if Watson was there it would be worth taking, for the sake of working with him again. I had missed his company sorely, though I never would have admitted it. His marriage and professional duties had kept him from my side for some time, and I was unspeakably glad to see him in our once shared rooms again. Our client arrived, with all his expensive finery--"There's money in this case, Watson, if there's nothing else."_

I sat alone, an empty man in his empty world, but for the wisps of smoke rising steadily upwards, fleeting, distant, and, as always, insbustantial.

_"I think that I had better leave, Holmes," he said, standing; he felt he should be intruding, but he could not have been more wrong. _

_"Not a bit of it, Doctor!" I cried, motioning for him to resume his seat, "stay where you are." _

Another time, in another life, I would have allowed my thoughts to occupy me, or cocaine to sustain me--but it could never be enough.

_I smiled fondly at his perplexed (but, I think, gratified) expression. _

The only sound was my thoughts, forever ringing and echoing through the vast, boundless cavern of my lonliness.

_"I am lost without my Boswell."_

I am lost...


	10. The old Woman

**Prompt: Who was the man who collected the wedding band for Jefferson Hope, and did Holmes ever meet him again?**

_A/N: I got this highly implausible idea at--you guessed it--3:00 am. And it turned into a 221b! Strange how I always do these by accident. It's quite AU, and quite unlikely, but I had fun with the idea, so I had to write it :)_

* * *

_...I leave a photograph, which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,  
__Very sincerely yours,  
__Irene Norton, nee Adler._

The king heaved a sigh of relief as he came to the end of this singular missive. He began to proclaim loudly what a woman Mrs. Norton was. I was hardly listening; but was reading a post script, which the others had overlooked.

_You may not know it, but our paths have crossed before--I impersonated an elderly woman as a favour to my friend Jefferson Hope. He had told me to take precautions against you, as the advertisment could likely be a trap. Only thus did I know you followed me. You did it very nicely--I had to go to great lengths to shake you off. My congratulations, Mr. Holmes. You really are an expert in your field.  
Yours,  
Irene Norton._

"...Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?" the king exclaimed.

"From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a very different level from your Majesty." I looked back at the photograph. A remarkable woman indeed. Of course, it was a blow to my pride, but I was appeased by the knowledge that there is no one by whom I would rather have been bested.


	11. An Irregular's Tale

**Prompt: Baker Street Irregulars--How did Holmes meet them, when did they start working for him, etc.**

_A/N: Having lived quite comfortably in the country my entire life, I had a very difficult time writing this. On the other hand, I live in an old farmhouse, and I know what it's like to be sleeping out in the cold--my bedroom has more holes in the wall than the stone-throwing people in the glass house. So basically, a lot of artistic license, but I tried to make it realistic.  
Oh, and I swear, I SWEAR, I did not watch Peter Pan before writing this. It was an accident._

_This was not proofread at all--I just sort of spat it out. I didn't want to write out all the cockney, so just use your imagination, but I think sometimes my own vocabulary and modern language slipped through. But keep in mind that this isn't Wiggins _talking_--this is more like his inner thoughts. So maybe my vocabulary is allowed. Meh. Let me know what you think!_

* * *

It's a funny thing--you never see grown up 'street urchins.' It's sort of a part of London now, seeing a bunch of dirty, penniless kids running through the streets--street urchins, you think to yourself, and move on. But they've got to grow up sometime, you know? What happens to all the street urchins that battled their way through two decades of hardship and misfortune? Not all of them do, you know. It's not pretty, but it's the truth. Sometimes little shoulders can't take the weight of the world.

Some of us never leave the streets--begging's the way to go. Thieving, too. It gets harder to pick pockets when you're suddenly above waist height of the person you're nicking pennies from, and it gets harder to live off the pennies you get. Those of us with parents are told to be good, to keep on the right side of the law and all that. Parents worry for us. We do our best, but every hand is needed sometimes to keep a family afloat, and when you're that little, cold and hungry and feeling useless, sometimes you feel like there's only one thing you can do.

Of course, it's a bit difficult to go out thieving when you work for Mr. Holmes. Something about that man teaches you right from wrong in a hurry. I don't have parents--there was a fire, and they were trapped inside. Just one of those things, I guess. Of all the places to catch fire, it had to be our place. There weren't a lot of damages, people said, because nothing else caught, and we didn't even have anything worth burning. Except them. I don't remember why I wasn't home that night, but at least I can remember at all.

Anyhow, picking pockets is a living, when you're little and alone. So I made my living, as best I could. I'm not proud of it, but I'm not sorry, either. It's what I was handed, and I did my best with it. I don't know how it happened, but I started gathering a following--little ones, even littler than I was, looking up to me. Some of them had someone to care for them, thankfully, but they all looked to me as a sort of mentor. I made it my business to take care of them--see they came into no real trouble. They were all good kids, mind, and I guess they needed a leader. And I guess I was the one they chose. I grew up a good deal faster than I'd meant to, thanks to that fire, but as least I had them to grow up _for_.

I was still a kid, though. And nicking stuff was about all I could do, for a while. It was a living. Then, of course, I went and made the biggest mistake of my life. Usually I counted on people not noticing me--it's amazing how many people don't see a kid reaching into their pocket. Really, no one notices anything, and that was what I lived by when I stuck my hand into the pocket of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and he had me by the collar before I knew what was happening. He looked at me, and did that thing where he looks like he's seeing right through you, and I broke away and scarpered as fast as I could. I was shaking so badly I just ran on back to the empty house where I was staying. The little ones found me, and made me tell what had happened--it was a bit embarassing, to tell the truth, but I was just glad I got away.

Then the next day I was out again, trying to make up for what I'd thought I'd be getting from Mr. Holmes. But it was a hot day, and I was tired, so I sat on a stoop in an alley for a bit, and suddenly this bloke sits down next to me. Course, it was Mr. Holmes, although I didn't know it was him then--I just knew it was the fellow who'd had me by the collar yesterday, and I was about to get up and run when he grabbed my wrist and said "Settle down, lad." So I settled, and he said "You did a smart job of getting into my pocket yesterday, my boy. I'm sure that if I did not make it my business to notice things I would have missed you entirely." And I didn't know what to say, so I just sat there.

"What's your name, lad?" he asked.

"Wiggins."

"Well, Wiggins--I don't suppose you could do a job for me, could you?"

"What sort of job?"

He pulled a bit of paper from his pocket and showed it to me--it was a photograph, of an old man with a walrus moustache and little spectacles. "I need to know if this man has been anywhere near that house--" and he pointed across the street to a big old building--"anytime today or tomorrow."

"You want me to spy on the house?"

"I suppose 'spy' is a way of putting it. You must understand that this is extremely important--if he shows up I must know about it. I'll give you a shilling for today and another for tomorrow. Do you agree?"

It was good money and easy work. And I knew I could easily spot the bloke if he showed up, too. Plus, this was the fellow whose wallet I'd almost taken, and I got the feeling I'd better do as he asked. So I nodded, and he gave me that day's shilling. "If he goes near that house you must run immediately and tell me." He gave me his address on Montague street, and told me to find him there.

I was making to go to he house he wanted watched when a thought came to me, and I turned and said "'Scuse me, sir, but what's your name?"

And he smiled, and said "My name is Sherlock Holmes." And I went off to watch the house.

The bloke in the photograph didn't show up that day, but the next day he came around about noon, and hung around the gates. So I ran off to Montague street as fast as I could, and I found Mr. Holmes, and he was off like lightning, jumping into a cab and telling the driver to whip up the horses. I ran after him to the house, of course, because I had to see what was happening, and when I got there I found Mr. Holmes, with a cut across his cheek and a bruise on his forehead, and two police officers holding onto the moustache man, who was looking redder than I've ever seen a person. Mr. Holmes was explaining something about a test, how if the man had proved his guilt by showing up, while he'd investigated the man's partner and found him lurking on the other side of the city. It was right over my head, of course, but it was exciting. Mr. Holmes found me afterwards and gave me a shilling for my work, and an extra one. "You did an excellent job, Wiggins," he said to me, "perhaps I shall have more work for you in the future."

And he did, too. I don't know how he found where I was staying--I moved about a lot, but he said something about having noticed the colour of the mud on my feet. Sometimes I think Mr. Holmes is the biggest nutter I've ever laid eyes on, but he's smarter than any officer, and a decent chap at that. He had me do lots of errands for him--he started employing my whole gang, for some things. He paid well, and we were glad to be doing something. It was worthwhile, too--most of the time we ended up finding something important for Mr. Holmes, and he'd pay us something extra and run down to wherever he needed to with more energy than I'd ever seen in a fellow, and the next day some murderer would be behind bars. We got to know Mr. Holmes pretty well, after a while, though I daresay I was the one he knew best. It's a funny thing, how we're all helping him catch criminals, and he first caught me trying to nick his wallet, but it did us both some good, seems.

I was surprised when he sent word that he was leaving Montague street and moving to Baker street--I didn't know how he could afford the shift. He said he was sharing the price with someone. I remember thinking the fellow he was sharing with had to be just as mad as they came. I have great respect for Mr. Holmes, of course, but I'd not want to live with him. But we met the fellow, Doctor Watson, and he was one of the normalist people I've ever laid eyes on. I didn't expect it to last, but the next time Mr. Holmes had a job for us he was still there, and the time after that. We got to know him well, too. He's a wonderful chap, really. And it's always nice to see a sane face next to Mr. Holmes'.

It's a funny thing, too--Mr. Holmes has changed since he moved to Baker Street. He may not have seen it, but I can tell--I've seen lots of people, even if they don't always see me. There's a look you get, when you're alone in the world, and you come to recognize it in other people after a while. I reckon I'd have that look just as bad as anyone, if it weren't for the lads always looking up to me. But Mr. Holmes always had that look, in his eyes, and he never seemed the type to tell anyone what was really on his mind. But on the last case I helped him with, I saw him talking with the doctor, and he was different--that look was gone, replaced with something else. I think the Doctor knew, in a way--he's a smart fellow, Doctor Watson. I don't know what made him stay with Mr. Holmes all these years, since I'm mostly sure he isn't off his rocker, but I'm glad he did. Mr. Holmes is a good fellow, for all his ways, and I've seen what happens to some people who stay alone in the world for all their lives, and I'm glad he won't have that happen to him.

I'd be happy to stay and help Mr. Holmes all my life, but I never can. Even street kids have to grow up someday, and I'm starting to be able to look more people in the eye than I used to. I could stay a thief--keep stealing and stealing until I get caught someday--but after working with Mr. Holmes for so long, I don't think that'd be the best idea. Those of us that make it out get jobs, collect some coins...keep living. Me, I've always liked water--maybe because it doesn't burn, like everything else, or maybe because it's got so much life. I'm thinking of working on a boat; maybe someday sailing on the ocean. I'll keep looking for jobs until I find one that suits me. Mr. Holmes has said that I'm good with my hands, and there's plenty of jobs that could use a boy--a young man, I guess--who's good with his hands. Just keep living.

Sometimes I think about growing up, and I don't want to have any of it. Working for Mr. Holmes is the best job I could ever have--good pay, lots of adventure, something I'm good at. But everyone's got to grow up sometime, and anyway, there's something about Mr. Holmes and the Doctor that makes me think it's not that simple. Something about them that feels like a story, where even though time moves on and people change, the story stays the same. And I know Doctor Watson writes about the cases, so maybe it really is a story. So even though time passes, and things change, and I'm starting to grow up, there'll always be a Wiggins working for Mr. Holmes, years and years and years later, you know? I can't stop time, and I can't stop changing, but in a way, I'll always be the leader of a gang of boys around London, never noticed but noticing everything, then running back to Baker Street for Mr. Holmes.

And if you ask me, there are worse ways to spend forever.


	12. Compassion

**Prompt: Why did Watson not put the little dog out of its misery? Was it soft-heartedness, or something else?**

_A/N: This is largely taken from personal experience, me being the tree hugging, animal loving vegetarian that I am... What can I say, I have a soft spot for doggies. It's not as creative as I've been in the past, but I was drawing a huge blank for this prompt, and then this thing trickled into my brain, so I just went ahead and wrote it down. It's less IC than I'd like, too, now that I've read it over... #sigh...# I promise the next one will be better?_

* * *

Holmes was still humming a theme from the concert when he returned--it had been a most magnificent performance, and would likely leave him in a pleasant mood for the rest of the day. That, combined with the probable response to the ad he'd placed in the evening paper, made for an excellent day all around. He stepped lightly up the seventeen steps and into the sitting room.

He was surprised to see the somewhat ancient little terrier that had been at death's door for so long sitting on their rug when he came in. The Doctor was sitting in his armchair with a syringe in his hand, staring down at the little thing with a sad expression.

"Are you going to finally put the poor thing out of it's pain, then?" Holmes asked.

Watson looked up at his entrance, and Holmes caught a fleeting embarassed expression cross the doctor's face. "Yes, yes, I am."

"Good." Holmes retreated to his room for a moment. When he returned, the Doctor and dog appeared not to have moved at all. "Are you going to do it, then?" he asked, glancing sidelong at his fellow lodger.

"Of course I am, I just--" Watson stared down at the dog, his eyes full of pity. "I just don't want to," he said finally, with a touch of defiance, as if daring him to argue.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Whyever not? The wretched thing is clearly suffering."

"I know it is, and I want to stop the suffering, but..." Watson shifted uncomfortably. "I just... Well, I look in its eyes, and I see that it's still alive, even though death is iminent. And it's utterly helpless, in my hands. I just couldn't be the one to end its life, though it is an act of mercy."

Holmes sat in his armchair and looked at the doctor quizzically. "You were in Afghanistan."

"That was different--we were at war. If I killed anyone, it was an act of self defense. And when your life is in danger, you'll do anything necessary to protect yourself. But this dog is harmless."

Holmes smiled slightly at this display of the doctor's heartfelt kindheartedness. "Does it help to know that it won't make much difference in the dog's lifespan?" he asked.

"It should," Watson answered, shaking his head.

Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to rap on the door. "Dinner is laid, Mr. Holmes," she said when she saw him, gesturing to the table. "I just came to give you this telegram. Goodness, doctor, is that little dog not put out of its misery yet?"

Watson stood, a very slight flush tinging his cheeks, but before he could speak Holmes interrupted. "I'm afraid the good doctor's medical supplies are close to depleated, Mrs. Hudson. We have only just now discovered the deficiancy."

Watson stared at Holmes for a moment, then quickly held the syringe behind his back, shooting the detective a grateful look. "Terribly sorry, Mrs. Hudson..."

"Oh, dear... well, I suppose the poor thing can make it through another day..." she picked up the little dog, who was utterly unresponsive.

"Tomorrow, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes sang out as he closed the door behind her, before turning back to his fellow lodger, who was looking rather sheepish.

"Thank you for that, Holmes," said Watson, as he put his syringe away. "I know it was rather silly--"

"Think nothing of it, Doctor," said Holmes happily as he turned to his place at the table. "You had better help the poor thing out tomorrow, though--it really did appear to be in pain."

"I know, I know... I wanted to help, believe me."

"Of course you did, Doctor." Holmes rubbed his hands together appreciatively. "But for now, there is an excellent meal before us. Will you join me?"

"You're certainly cheerful," said Watson, sitting opposite him. "I take it the concert was good?"

"It was magnificent," said Holmes happily.

Their conversation drifted onwards, but Watson found himself dwelling on the incident later. He could not quite put his finger on it, but something between himself and his fellow lodger was different, since they began working on this case. He supposed it would make sense eventually.

* * *

_A/N: #facepalm#_


	13. The Nose Knows

**Prompt: From Chapter 1 of SIGN, I quote: ****_"My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted last week by Francois le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come rather to the front lately in the French detective service."  
_Have Holmes and Le Villard meet, either for the first time or at a different time; I've always wanted to see Holmes meet something of a rival other than the usual Dupin and so on.**

_A/N: I've gone through way too many drafts of this, beginning with something rather melancholy and introspective, and ending with something entirely different. While I think that the drafts have only improved as I've written them, I'm afraid I could not quite keep Holmes IC for the duration of the ficlet--I started to miss Watson and got distracted, doing some damage that I went back to and didn't know how to repair. I did my best, but my vision of Holmes is a bit out of focus for part of this. I'm afraid this is because my dad was watching the dramatized versions of PG Wodehouse's series about Bertie Wooster--Hugh Laurie is amazing!--and the atmosphere was less than usual for writing SH stories... But anyway... I don't think I could possibly write _another _draft, so we're stuck with this._

* * *

"It is a most delicate matter, Mr. Holmes," said Le Villard urgently through a heavy accent. "You must understand this--I am taking it on faith that you are an honourable man, and you will not tell anyone of what passed between us here, today."

Holmes wished he had his pipe. He wished he was back in Baker Street, too, as he found his rooms infinitely more comfortable to work in than this odd little cafe, but Le Villard had been most insistant. Holmes had considered turning the case down, but decided to meet with the man at the last moment. Still, he did not see why it was necessary to take their business outside Baker Street. Or the sense of urgency. The man was acting as though the case was of some great international importance, when in fact it was rather a simple matter involving a will. It always seemed to be wills.

Francois le Villard was really rather clever. He had an excellent talent for observation and deduction--a little less so than Holmes himself, but certainly far more than ordinary men. His dedication to justice was admirable, as was his determination. It was a pity that he did not have the extensive knowledge of crime that made Holmes himself so adept at seeing the patterns that emerged through criminal activity.

It was also rather a pity about the man's Nose.

Holmes knew perfectly well that his own nose was rather large and not his best feature, but this man... his Nose (which was quite deserving of the capital letter) was something else entirely. It was not so much disproportionate to his face as a separate entity altogether. He would not have been the least bit surprised if the Nose simply walked off Le Villard's face and pulled up a chair next to them. It was similar to seeing a victim of some terrible accident--you knew you shouldn't be staring, but you just couldn't look away.

"The case does hold several points of interest, I confess," said Holmes languidly. "This will, you say, was certainly the same document, kept in the same envelope?"

"Yes, because the creases corresponded perfectly, and there was a smudge of ink left on the inside," said Le Villard, nodding his Nose.

"So it would have had to be, of course, someone in the household who is not only familiar with where the documents are kept, but with the man's handwriting." Holmes steepled his fingers. How on earth did a man get a Nose like that, anyhow? That such a great, bulbous thing could ever appear on a human visage was somewhat unsettling. _Thank heaven for my father's nose._ He wondered vaguely how Le Villard had gotten through his school years with a Nose like that--perhaps it had not reached its full magnificence until his adult years. One could only hope so, as otherwise he would surely have been dreadfully unbalanced as an adolescent. The man must find it difficult enough to deal with now, of course--he was a genuinely good detective, but it was so difficult to tear one's attention away from the Nose.

Holmes realised that he had not been listening. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I said, this does not clear up the matter of who is to profit from the changing of the will," said the Nose.

"Because it was not altered in anyone's favour." Holmes gave a small smile. "In that case, you must eliminate the idea that the crime was perpetrated for financial gain. I doubt that the fellow who committed the crime meant for the servant to die, but I suspect he may have expected to be seen--placing the light in the window, after all, when he knew full well that the young lady would be up and about around that time." Holmes pulled out his notebook and scribbled down two case names. "I suggest you have a look at these--one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis in 1871. I daresay you may find them useful."

Le Villard took the piece of paper and, after glancing at the names again, slipped it into his pocket. "Have you any other advice to give me concerning this case?" he asked.

"Only that you pay close attention to the effects of this incident on the members of the family," Holmes responded. No doubt that would set the fellow on the right track. Le Villard was looking slightly confused, from what Holmes could see of his face around his Nose--apparently the cases were not familiar to him, but he would, no doubt, find the connection.

They sstood and said their farewells. "You will, of course, keep our business between ourselves?" Le Villard asked again, as he shook Holmes' hand.

"Oh, of course," said Holmes cheerfully. "Do let me know how the affair works out, will you? This case was certainly not without merit."

Le Villard nodded one last time to Holmes. "I shall indeed."

His Nose turned and left the cafe, Le Villard following close behind.

* * *

A week later, Holmes recieved a letter from France. Le Villard had been successful, and was altogether too appreciative of his help, expressing his gratitude in the grandest of terms. Holmes smiled as he read it--Le Villard overestimated his assistance. He himself was promising to be quite adept at the profession.

Holmes skimmed over the letter. Near the end, Le Villard expressed his hopes that they could work together more often in the future. Although Holmes was quite pleased with the other man's skills in the field of detection, he found it difficult to imagine working with him regularly. No doubt Holmes' own eccentricities would drive the fellow to insanity. And in any case, he doubted he could do his most effective work with the Nose constantly in his line of sight.

"Anything come for me, Holmes?" asked Watson as he entered with the paper.

"I'm afraid not, old fellow."

Watson shrugged and sat down with the paper. After a while, he became aware of Holmes staring at him. "What are you looking at?" he asked finally.

"Just your nose," said Holmes.

"Well, what about it?"

"Nothing about it." Holmes chuckled to himself. "There's absolutely nothing about it, my dear Watson."

Watson stared at his friend. "Are you quite all right, Holmes?"

"Perfectly, my dear Watson, perfectly. I have just become more appreciative of your visage of late."

Watson rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, Holmes."

* * *

_A/N: Ahahahahaha, that was weird. In my earlier drafts I went more into the fact that Holmes was meeting with someone of his own profession, and there was more rivalry involved. But I had way more fun with this one, and anyway, the others weren't working out. Bizzare, but way too fun to write XD_


	14. A life in a pocket watch

**Prompt: From Chapter 1 of SIGN, the infamous watch bit and the introduction of the Doctor's late brother. Why didn't Holmes find out about it before (you'll have to address the lack of mourning clothes issue here) and what was his reaction to finding out why Watson didn't tell him?**

_A/N: This was extremely difficult to write. I had the basic idea in my head from speculating on the point before, but I had trouble putting it together in a coherent fashion. The lateness of the update is more due to procrastination than writer's block, as I knew that it would be hard to answer. It was quite difficult to keep Watson IC in this._

* * *

It was soon after the untimely death of my father that the most drastic change in my brother Henry became apparent. We had all known of the man's weak heart, and were, sadly, unsurprised when he finally left this world. Henry had been withdrawn, distant from us, for some time, but upon our father's death he was further from us than ever. He had begun drinking heavily, more satisfied with the hazy, indistinct world presented to him by the contents of too many bottles than with the reality which life had presented to him.

My poor mother, sickened with grief at her husband's passing, looked to her sons for comfort. She needed all the support she could get--I gave her what I could, but Henry's coldness was painful to her. Ever since he had discovered the realm of drunkeness he had become more and more detatched from us. He continued to distance himself, choosing instead the company of a variety of bottles and women, neither of which made for long term satisfaction, apparently. His attitude towards the rest of the world, even his own mother, was indifferent.

I remember my mother, near to tears, pleading with him to realize what his life had become--his family, who loved him still, was barely a part of his life, while he spent his time delving into all the sins of man. He did not heed her words, instead laughing scornfully at her attempts to bring back her eldest son. I in turn did my best to reason with him, but became so disgusted at his continued indifference and despicable behavior. that I angrily shut him out just as much as he did me. I wonder, now, whether his method of pushing us away was used as a defense against something--the memory of our father, perhaps, or the traditional responsibilities of an eldest son, or the support that our mother needed but which he, for whatever reason, would not or could not give her.

I had almost finished school when my mother passed away. She had been terribly ill--a fever, the sort that rises inexorably, too fast and too high. Her brow was burning, searing to touch until the cool hand of death closed around her. It was during her illness that I saw the true extent to which she was grieved by Henry's abandonment. Delerious, she called me by his name, asking me why I'd hurt her and my brother by pushing us away, by taking to the bottle. Why did he leave us, she would ask, in her rare lucid moments. I never knew what to tell her.

I sent for my brother, when I was certain she would not make it. He never came. To be honest, I expected him not to. I did not expect him to come to her funeral, either, but that he did, in a completely drunken state. Halfway through the service he began singing loudly; I would have escorted him forcefully away but he went himself, wandering out of the place as though he hadn't a care in the world, which it is quite possible that he didn't.

It was soon after that that I realized I had lost my brother.

I had already mourned when I heard of his death, and had already dealt with my grief, and so felt no compulsion to mourn him again. I carried his watch, however, though I felt I needed no reminder of him. Perhaps it was a last vestige of a family tie, the last amount of forgiveness I could muster for my unhappy brother. Perhaps it was to remind me of my father, and a time before Henry was lost to us. Or perhaps it serves as a reminder of a man who chose the easy path away from grief and responsibility, but found the price too high to pay.

In any case, the watch held memories for me that were important, but painful. I carried the watch, but I carried it for days on end without looking at it, without thinking of the means by which I had come by it.

It was without thinking that I handed the watch to my friend Sherlock Holmes, the day he learned of my brother's existance. It was sued purely as a means of distraction on the spur of the moment, to present him with some problem which I though would not only prove difficult, but would also bend his mind away from the drug in which he found such stimulation. He proceeded to deduce the particulars of my brother's life--the relationship, the finances, the drink, the death. And it startled me, to hear him summarized so succinctly, so briefly. To see how much of my brother was in that watch, and to see how little of my brother there was.

I had mourned, long ago, for the loss of my brother, as it had affected me, but now I unexpectedly mourned for the loss of the man my brother was, and the man he might have been. Who knows what might have happened, had he made some other choice? Perhaps he would have been successful, perhaps he would have been happy. Perhaps he would not have relied on the bottle. Perhaps his entire life, by the end, could not have fit so easily into a pocket watch. The realization was difficult, but liberating, in a way. The resentment I had felt for my brother dissipated, in time.

Holmes was good enough not to question me further on my brother--I think he understood that our relationship had been far from a happy one. It was much later in our friendship that the subject came up again--I mentioned my brother, offhand, and there was no more bitterness in his name. He did not ask me anything directly, but through the conversation I told him about Henry, and his unfortunate life. Holmes was sympathetic, in his own quiet way, and I think he understood that I had come to terms with my relationship with my brother. For all the times that he can be self-centered and careless, he can be remarkably attuned to the feelings of others.

"Did you ever wonder," I asked him on a whim, "why I never told you of my brother?"

"I did," my friend admitted. "But I assumed you had your reasons."

* * *

_A/N: Hmmmm...  
Rather an odd place to stop, I know, but that was the spot where it stopped coming, so I guess that's the end :P  
Part of the reason this was so hard to write was that I was trying to find a balance in Henry--I didn't want to just make him a horrible person, but I wanted Watson to have a very good reason to resent his brother. I think I hit somewhere close to the middle of the spectrum, but if it sounds wishy-washy, that's why :)_


	15. Distraction

**Prompt: Today you have a choice. Take one of these two passages, from Chapter 3 of SIGN:_Miss Morstan's demeanour was as resolute and collected as ever. I endeavoured to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures in Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at our situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories were slightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one moving anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of night, and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it._**

**_I trust that he _(Sholto)**_**may not remember any of the answers which I gave him that night. Holmes declares that he overheard me caution him against the great danger of taking more than two drops of castor-oil, while I recommended strychnine in large doses as a sedative.  
**_

**Your challenge today - Take one of those passages and run with its infinite fun possibilities.**

_A/N: There were so many FANTASTIC ideas popping up everywhere from this prompt! But I used this one instead._

* * *

Late one evening in Baker Street, soon after the conclusion of the case I titled the Sign of Four, I recalled a letter addressed to both Holmes and myself sent by Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, which I had received earlier in the day and forgotten to show my companion.

"Thaddeus Sholto's sent another greeting, Holmes," I said, handing him the paper as he walked into the sitting room. "He wants to thank you again."

"Hmmm." Holmes glanced it over, then tossed it on the desk. "A most appreciative client." He smirked at me. "And rather a paranoid one, at that--has he asked your medical opinion on some new symptom every day since the start of the case?"

"I'm afraid so," I said ruefully. "He seems to take his health very seriously." I paused, watching my friend, who was idling around his desk. "Which is more than can be said for some people," I grumbled.

He raised an eyebrow. "Am I to take this to mean you are still displeased by my use of cocaine?" he asked.

"Holmes, I do wish you would have more care about the ultimate cost of the substance--it could be so detrimental to those wonderful powers which you have just displayed so marvelously in relation to this case. I speak only with your best interests at heart," I added, more softly. "As a medical man--"

He nodded, giving me a small smile. "Watson, I would never accuse you of having your heart in the wrong place," he said, with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Believe me when I say that I do not act out of blatant disregard to my own health and your medical opinions." He sat behind his desk and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. "I have found that the stimulation to my mind is quite necessary, however. It is far harder for me to exist without that constant mental activity than with the effects of the drug."

I was prepared to debate the point with him further when he began to chuckle to himself. "Although I confess that I have much less faith in your medical opinions after hearing your advice to Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," he said, with a gleam in his eye.

I could not fathom what he meant by this comment, but I was rather stung. "I don't know what you mean by that, Holmes," I said sharply. "I have only ever given Mr. Sholto my honest opinion based on my medical training and experience." Though my honest medical opinion was that Mr. Sholto was a hypochondriac of the first order, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with him.

"So it really _is_dangerous to take more than two drops of castor-oil?"

I stared. "What on earth are you talking about, Holmes?"

"Only repeating your own sound medical advice, Watson. I distinctly remember, on our cab ride to the residence of Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, you cautioning Thaddeus Sholto against the dangers of taking more than two drops of castor-oil."

"I most certainly did not, Holmes!"

"My dear Watson, I assure you--"

"I know I was a little... well, distracted, I suppose. But I said nothing of the kind!"

"You did, Watson." His eyes twinkled merrily. "I daresay he does not remember most of the advice you gave him--hopefully not the bit about the strychnine."

I gaped, and his smile broadened at my expression. "_What_ about strychnine?" I asked.

"Well, you recommended it in large doses as a sedative, as I recall. And while I do not disagree with you on this point, I believe the purposes of a sedative are not such that the subject should become, shall we say, _permanently _sedated."

"Now, Holmes, I know you are toying with me--I'm sure I never said that--"

"I am inclined to think that it was rather justified, Watson--he was a positively abysmal travel companion. I don't believe he paused for breath even once when listing his onslaught of symptoms."

"Holmes, that's terrible. And in any case I am certain I didn't..." I shook my head in resignation. "I did, didn't I?"

Holmes' quiet snickering was answer enough, and before long we were both laughing uncontrollably.

"I certainly hope he doesn't remember what I said to him that night," I said finally, still chuckling. "I'm afraid my mind was on other things."

"Specifically our other traveling companion, I suppose," said Holmes, crossing to the mantle for his pipe. "You really were rather distracted for much of that ride--a fact that was lost on the loquacious Thaddeus Sholto."

We spent the remainder of the evening in pleasant conversation, recalling incidents of the case which were both bizarre and amusing, and speculating about the effectiveness of Jones' place on the police force. To this day Holmes still brings up my medical advice to Mr. Sholto. His syringe, however, remained untouched for that night.

* * *

_A/N: I had some trouble coming up with something for this prompt (which is, I guess, why I have this as my result :P) My other idea was something I dreamed when I fell asleep thinking about the prompt--a tiger cub wandered into Watson's tent, and befriended him--then, quite unexpectedly, an enemy soldier showed up outside the tent and stuck a double barrelled musket through the tent flap. And the tiger cub chased him away.  
That is why I am constantly using ideas I get at three in the morning--the ones I get when I'm half asleep are infinitely better than the ones I get when I'm fully asleep. Although I probably would have had fun writing that scenario. _


	16. The Unexpected Corpses

****

Prompt: From Chapter 4 of SIGN, this sentence struck me: _"...there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman."_-Thaddeus Sholto  
Use that sentence in any form you wish, like you did the chicken one.

_A/N: Just a warning: When I finally finished this, ACD walked into my house and put a big red X through my computer screen. "There's been plenty of fanfiction that's made me turn in my grave," he said as he was leaving, "But nothing's ever made me shoot through the layers of earth like a cork from a bottle before."  
OK, here's how it worked--I felt like Holmes should say this, but I couldn't imagine why. So I just put him in a random place, made him say it, and then he kept going and I could do nothing to stop it. And then I realized I didn't really have a plot, and it was very difficult to write a story without a plot. And...well, I would say that I watched way, way too much Doctor Who, except that's impossible (because you can never, ever have too much Doctor Who). Anyway, the point is, sorry for the late update :)__  
Again, the plot is highly implausible, and for the purposes of this story I'm afraid I had Holmes a bit OOC for a lot of this. But, again, it was fun to write, so I couldn't bear to change any of it :D_

* * *

On the day when we began our involvement in this curious affair, Sherlock Holmes and I had spent the morning walking around the city, him pointing out differences in the mud through which we walked and tossing out deductions about the people we encountered as we went. We ended with lunch at Marcini's, then made our way back to Baker Street without a care in the world.

We were rather surprised to see Constable Wilson standing in the doorway of our building. He, for his part, looked relieved to see us. "Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson."

"Hello there, constable," said Holmes cheerfully. "I suppose Lestrade is upstairs?"

"Well, yes, sir, he is--"

"I take it he has some trifling little problem waiting for us, then," Holmes said, squeezing past the constable into the building. "No need to stand there the entire time, constable," he called back as I followed him in. "Feel free to walk up and down the street a little--stretch your legs. After all," he continued to me, as we ascended the stairs. "It does not do to have one's door effectively blocked by constables all day. And in any case, there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman."

He flung open the door to our sitting room, and we both stopped short at the sight that met our eyes.

"I take it back, Watson," said Holmes quietly, after a long silence. "There is nothing more unaesthetic than a bloody, mangled corpse in the middle of one's sitting room."

* * *

Lestrade was looking harassed. "I don't mind telling you, Mr. Holmes, I'm glad you've come back--this is a nasty business. Your poor landlady was the one who found the body--It came as rather a shock to her. She's gone to lie down for a bit. I tell you, when Wilson came in saying she'd found a body in your apartments, we were worried it was one of you."

"And what do you know so far, Inspector?" asked Holmes, kneeling by the body.

"His name is Mr. Albert Steele," Lestrade answered, holding out a business card. "We found these on his person. He studied botany, apparently. We assume he was here to consult you on some matter, but beyond that we know absolutely nothing about him."

"I see," said Holmes, who had begun to carefully examine the rest of the room.

I joined the inspector next to the body. "I suppose he was killed by the trauma to the head?"

"Apparently. He was also stabbed several times, but clumsily, as if in a struggle. There was no knife found, so we'll have to assume the killer brought it with him."

"And no one knows anything about the killer?"

"No--apparently he slipped in here as he followed the unfortunate Mr. Steele. He must have been waiting for his chance... but no, Doctor, we don't know anything about him."

"On the contrary," said Holmes, straightening up from behind the sofa. "We know that he is about Watson's height, with broad shoulders, slightly small hands for his size, very old square toed boots, and an injury in his left leg, probably from this incident. We also know that he must be involved in some illegal activity, for why else would he have followed this man specifically to kill him?"

"Good Lord, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade chuckled as he wrote the information down. "I'll never get used to the way you just rattle information off the top of your head, as though it was the easiest thing in the world."

"Only very nearly, Lestrade. He did not take a cab on the way here, but I am inclined to think that with a wounded leg he would not fancy a walk of any sort. He may have hailed a hansom."

"Right. Question the drivers. If you're done here, we'll just be moving the body. I'm going to find the man's poor widow--are you coming?"

Holmes was bent over something on the floor. "No, you go on, Lestrade," he said, waving him away without looking up. "Let us know what you find."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes."

The body was moved, Lestrade went off on his errand, I found Mrs. Hudson and did my best to comfort her after the scene she'd stumbled upon. When all was quieter, I found Holmes in the sitting room, which was steadily filling up with smoke. "It's a bad business, Watson," he said as I entered.

"I was hardly going to suggest otherwise, Holmes."

"Of course, my dear fellow. But this, to me, speaks of something more complex than a commonplace murder. There is something more to this--the man was here seeking help with some problem, but was killed before he could communicate it to us. Well, Watson, he was found dead in our rooms, which rather forces us to become involved. Tomorrow morning, we should go and see what we can find at the dead man's house."

* * *

"Lestrade's inquiries about the cab came to nothing," said Holmes bitterly as we rode to the late Mr. Steele's residence. "I suspected it might--all it takes is an unobservant cab driver, and a wounded man can get about the city unnoticed. Still, we shall see what the poor man's family has to say."

"Have you any theories so far?"

"Mere speculation, I'm afraid," he answered, drumming his fingers on his stick. "However, I suspect that money is at the heart of the matter--it always seems to be."

We found the house to be occupied by Albert Steele's aged father, along with his brother, sister, and brother-in-law. "I've been living with our father outside London," Reginald Steele, Albert's brother, told us. "But when we learned of Albert's death, I brought him down, just until we've sorted this business out. Didn't want to leave Molly alone, you know." He gestured towards Albert's widow, who was looking very pale and distant. "Sara lives right nearby with her husband, Tom Adams--they say Albert had been by to see them earlier yesterday, before he... well, before he went off to see you."

"I see." Holmes sat back and steepled his fingers. "May I ask you to bring your bereaved sister-in-law over?"

Molly Steele was lead to a seat near us. "Albert seemed worried for the past two days," she told us haltingly. "I saw him going around making sure all the doors and windows were locked at night."

"He didn't tell you why?"

"He just said it didn't hurt to take precautions. I also saw him running his hands along the walls a lot--I can't imagine why. He kept on telling me not to worry, but I could hardly help it, and now he's been killed--" She broke off, sobbing into her handkerchief.

Holmes leaned forward and touched her shoulder, fixing her with his strange, soothing gaze, and after a moment she calmed, wiping her eyes. "Thank you, Mrs. Steele," he said. "You have been most helpful." She turned to go. "Oh, one more thing--was it just you and your husband in the house?"

"No, we have a butler, Carlton."

"Thank you, Mrs. Steele."

Holmes sat in silence for some time after the distraught woman left, then stood abruptly. "I believe I should like to look around the house," he declared. "Watson, would you mind asking the sister and her husband about the victim?" He strode out of the room, headed towards the first floor.

I made my way to the sitting room, where the rest of the family was gathered. "Is there anything you can tell me about the day your brother died?" I asked gently, as the poor woman was looking frightfully pale.

"We didn't see anything unusual," Tom Adams answered, putting an arm around his wife. "He seemed quite himself."

"Did he tell you he was going to see Holmes?"

"No, he just said he had some extra business to take care of--we didn't ask him what."

I continued speaking with them for a time, but they seemed to have nothing new to tell me, and when Holmes returned I had nothing new to tell him. "Well, no matter, I suppose," he said, as we made our way back to Baker Street. "We can do nothing more for the moment. I am rather intrigued by this problem, however..." He trailed off, lost in thought. "I am going to smoke, Watson," he said finally.

"I expect the sitting room shall be quite uninhabitable, then."

He gave me a quick smile. "Most probably, I'm afraid. I shall let you know when I have reached a conclusion."

* * *

Late that night I had been reading in my bedroom when Holmes flung the door open quite unexpectedly. "Come, Watson, back to the house! I'd like to have another look at a couple rooms."

Back to the house we went, only to find the elderly Mr. Steele greeting us with a scowl. "I don't know what more you want from us," he grumbled. "At this hour of the night, too."

"Terribly sorry to disturb you, Mr. Steele," said Holmes politely. "There are just a couple theories we wish to test."

"And why can't you leave us in peace?" the old man snapped, glaring. "My son is dead, and all you buggers can do is ask questions. First it was that bloody inspector, and now you two."

"May I ask where Carlton is?" said Holmes.

"How the devil should I know? That's all it is from you people, isn't it? More questions. The damn inspector was in here questioning, tromping all around with his bloody policemen--I tell you, there's nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman."

He turned the corner into the sitting room and stopped, gawking.

"Yes, we didn't think of a corpse in the middle of the sitting room at first either," said Holmes, shaking his head at the body of Carlton the butler.

* * *

Lestrade arrived promptly, with dark circles under his eyes and his jacket on inside out. "This is becoming more mysterious by the minute, Holmes," he grumbled. "What on earth happened this time?"

"It is my belief that Carlton surprised an intruder," said Holmes, who was darting about the room, his keen eyes scanning every surface. "Or I should say intruders, for there was more than one. Our murderer of yesterday was here, along with two others--one we have encountered before; the same man who was in our rooms in Baker Street, the other about my height, older than the other two, smokes hand rolled cigarettes, probably the leader." He stared around the room, as though searching for something.

"Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade pleadingly, "what is the meaning of all this?"

"I can tell you nothing definite yet, Lestrade," my friend answered, still gazing purposefully around.

"Well then, I'm going to question the rest of the house--Lord knows they've had enough of that already, but duty calls..."

"Oh, Inspector?" called Holmes as Lestrade was about to leave.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"One of these men has definetely been here before, Inspector. He knew just where he was going."

Lestrade's eyes widened. "Really, Mr. Holmes?"

"Really, Inspector. Now, when you're done questioning the family, I suggest you go home and get some sleep."

"I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that was the first thing on my mind," said Lestrade wearily, leaving us in the sitting room.

Holmes continued to examine the room, muttering to himself, when Reginald Steele entered, looking decidedly nervous. "There's something I'd like to tell you, Mr. Holmes," he said in a rush.

Holmes raised an eyebrow and gestured to a seat. He didn't take it.

"The day before he died, Albert came around to see me and my father," he explained. "He pulled me aside and told me--that he'd seen something unusual going on between Tom and two other men." He drew a deep breath. "They were arguing, he said--something about money, apparently. And he didn't know what it was about, but something felt wrong to him, so he wanted to know what I thought about it."

"And why did you not tell me this before?" said Holmes coldly.

"I did it for Sara," said Steele softly. "Tom's a part of the family now, and she loves him--I didn't want it to seem like he was trouble. Because I'm sure he didn't mean for Albertff to die, no matter what his part to play in this, Mr. Holmes, I'm sure of it."

"I have seen human nature in many forms, Mr. Steele," said Holmes sternly. "And I can tell you that the depths to which a man shall sink are great indeed. I think we should pay a call on Mr. Adams."

Steele nodded. "You're right, of course," he said. "I've behaved foolishly--I was just so sure that Tom must have some sort of explanation..."

"Quite," said Holmes. "Lead the way, Mr. Steele."

The Adams' residence was quite nearby, as Steele had said. "Sara has been quite distraught, naturally," he told us as we reached the door. "I didn't want her to hear about Carlton just yet--I had to tell Molly; she was in the house, after all, but Sara... I just saw no need, just yet. She's already been sorely tried."

"Understandable, Mr. Steele," I said. "She has just lost her brother."

"And possibly a husband next," said Holmes, with his usual flawless tact.

Steele unlocked the door and pulled it open, leading the way inside. "She's a strong girl, Sara is. Things have just been a little hard for her lately--and now Carlton on top of everything else! I'm starting to think we should have a police guard to accompany us wherever we go. If it weren't such a frightful bother--and there's nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman," he said, before tripping over something in the middle of the floor.

"I do wish everyone would stop saying that," Holmes complained, as we turned over the lifeless body of Mr. Tom Adams. "It should be common knowledge by now that unexpected corpses are far worse."

* * *

Lestrade was looking less healthy by the second. "Mr. Holmes, if this continues I shall go mad. I'm not entirely certain I haven't already. Where are all these dead bodies popping up from?"

"That is what we are here to find out, Lestrade," said Holmes, pacing around the room. "I believe I know already, but I have no way of being certain." He stopped, and motioned Reginald Steele over to us. "Tell me," he said, "What exactly did your unfortunate brother say about the men Mr. Adams was arguing with?"

"He didn't really say anything," Steele answered, looking very pale. "He just said they were two men--both dark haired, one of them a bit older..."

"Did he happen to describe the older man's right ear?"

Steele looked at Holmes like he was mad.

"No, I suppose he wouldn't have," my friend said reflectively. "It seems that no one notices people's ears these days. Nevertheless... Lestrade, I think I can shed some light on this matter. If you would care to follow me..." He swept out of the house and headed back towards the Steele residence.

"I was a fool, Watson," he said to me as we walked. "I should have seen that there had to be a family connection--I doubt that Mr. Adams lived very much longer than Carlton did, but if I had seen it right away, perhaps I could have caught them. I was so focused on what it was they wanted, I completely neglected the people themselves!"

"Come now, Holmes. You clearly know more about this affair than anyone else--I doubt anyone could have done more than you."

"Nevertheless, Watson, it was abominably sloppy on my part. But we shall have them, of that I am certain. I expect they'll be back, though not tonight. They wouldn't have dared to linger after killing the butler. It really is a pity that man didn't notice the right ear."

"Holmes, _why_ must every case rest on a description of a man's ear?"

"You would be surprised at how revealing ears can be, Watson. Now--the Steele family's sitting room." He flung open the door and went to the far wall, stopping next to the fireplace. "There should be something here," he said, half to himself. "Some sort of--ahhh..." He pushed gently on a piece of the mantle, and it swung inwards.

"What on earth, Mr. Holmes?" said Lestrade, staring.

Holmes reached in and pulled out a small bundle. "Jewels, Lestrade. Diamonds. Wealth enough for men to kill for, as they evidently have." He opened the mouth of the sack, revealing the stones themselves. "Do you recall the theft of these diamonds, Inspector? Two of the criminals involved were caught at the scene, but one of them escaped, with these stones. His name was Richard Hall, and he lived here, in this house, and died in it as well. And now..."

"Now they've come back for the diamonds," said Lestrade, his eyes wide.

"Precisely. I suppose they bribed Mr. Adams--convinced him that they would give him a share. No doubt there was an argument--perhaps Adams got cold feet, or perhaps he simply wanted more than they were willing to give him. I highly doubt that they planned to kill anyone in the first place, but now that they have, they shall be eager to retrieve the stones as soon as possible. There is still plenty of darkness left, Lestrade. It is entirely possible that they will come tonight."

The Steeleff family had been moved out of the house, with lots of commotion. A police guard was placed on the front door, and four more policemen were stationed about the Adams' house. Holmes, Lestrade, and myself remained in the darkened sitting room. More than once we had to shake Lestrade to keep him awake. "Why doesn't _Gregson_ ever get cases like these?" he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Hush, Lestrade. This will be a feather in your cap if you can pull it off." Holmes stiffened suddenly. "Not a sound! Now wait..."

We heard a scraping at one of the windows in the corridor, which swung in a moment later. The shadows of two men crept in, soundlessly, and made for the mantle. After a moment one gave an exclamation of satisfaction and pushed open the panel, which was when the room was suddenly illuminated. "If you gentlemen would just step away from there with your hands in the air," said Lestrade.

The thieves looked inclined to flee for a moment, but Lestrade had his gun out, and I had trained my revolver on the pair as well, and they thought better of it, standing angrily next to the mantle instead. The younger of the two was about my height, with square toed boots and broad shoulders, as Holmes had described him, and I took a moment to marvel yet again at the accuracy with which my friend could describe a man from the traces he leaves in a room.

"Here you are, Lestrade," said Holmes, lighting a cigarette. "These men--Roderick Berg and Paul Dickinson--are the two survivng memebers of the little diamond robbery, here to retrieve their ill-gotten gains."

"After just recently being released from prision," growled Lestrade. He stuck his head out the window. "Wilson! Come around here, if you please!"

The two miscreants found the derbies on them with remarkable swiftness. "Of course, I should have expected something like this," Holmes said in an annoyed tone. "Upon being released, of course the first thing they are going to do is attempt to recover the rest of the diamonds. If there had been any evidence agains Hall we would have had him too, but as it was, we never found this last stash of stones."

We watched as they were led away by the police. I saw Holmes examining Berg's right ear with a satisfied expression. "Well, Watson, I only wish I could have been of more assistance to my client, but of course it was rather difficult for him to tell us anything. In any case, we have apprehended two criminals who never deserved to be released from prison, considering the number of people they killed just for these little stones. But we have found an end to this strange, unfortunate affair of the unexpected corpse, and will hopefully cease to be plauged by them every time we make an innocent comment on the aesthetic quailities of policemen."

* * *

_A/N: One word: FANFICTION. Just bear with me for this one, please please please? #puppy eyes# Just... ignore the flawed bits of the story (plot, characters, etc) and focus on... something else! Like the little lights on your keyboard that light up when you press num lock or caps lock or scroll lock. They're fun to play with--you can make them all go on, or all go off, or light them up in different patterns... _


	17. Holmes the Boxer

**From Chapter 5 of SIGN, I quote: _"Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes genially. "I don't think you can have forgotten me. Don't you remember that amateur who fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the night of your benefit four years back?"  
_****_"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "God's truth! how could I have mistook you? If instead o' standin' there so quiet you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a_ _question. Ah, you're one that has wasted your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you had joined the fancy."  
_****Four years previously would have been 1883 or 1884...early days. Was Watson present at the gathering and if so, was that the first time he'd seen Holmes boxing seriously? What was his reaction?**

_A/N: I used an OC I originally created for a different fandom in this, just because I'm so fond of him :)  
Right when I sat down to write this my mom and my sister decided it would be an excellent time to work out to their exercise video. A plethora of fluorescent-leotard clad women with hair styled in the best traditions of the 1960s has proved to be detrimental to the thinking process. So this is too short, and not very well written, and that is entirely the fault of the fluorescent leotards. Blame them. Not me. #runs#_

* * *

Doctor Jacob Ward stared at the enormous, semi-conscious man being hauled into surgery. "Don't worry, Doc, it looks worse than it is," said one of the fellows doing the hauling.

"What the devil happened to him?" Ward asked, helping to lay the man down. "It looks like he tried to pick a fight with an avalanche."

"You're close," said the other man, who happened to be Constable Gordon. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Eh?" Ward bent over his patient. He had never seen so many bruises on one person before.

"Sherlock Holmes--You know, the detective?"

"I know who Sherlock Holmes is. But I don't understand the connection between him and the excess of ecchymoses."

"This fellow's responsible for that murder of a day or two ago--you know, the pawnbroker? Sherlock Holmes tracked him down like it was nothing, though he didn't leave any traces that I could see."

"And they fought?"

"Apparently--The Doctor was armed, but this fellow rushed at Holmes before he could do anything. We were supposed to be there, actually, but he showed up earlier than Holmes reckoned, so he was on his own." Gordon grinned. "Guess Jenkins has never seen Holmes boxing."

"Boxing?" Ward sent Gordon a quizzical look. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"You read the Strand, right? Holmes can box like the best of them--he's a force to be reckoned with."

"I see." Ward continued cleaning a particularly nasty cut on the man's face. "But I daresay I consider it unlikely that our malevolent miscreant is going to follow any rules."

"Holmes' wrestling is top notch too!" said Gordon, his eyes shining. "That's how he beat Professor Moriarty!"

"Right, right." The doctor quickly set the man's broken fingers, causing him to stir and try to sit up before falling back. He was still only half conscious, but... "Er, Constable. I don't want to be a bother, but this fellow's a vicious, vindictive villain who wouldn't hesitate to rearrange my features to suit his purposes, as I see it, so perhaps putting the derbies on him...?"

"Oh, right, sorry." The young constable got to his feet. "It's just that when we got there he was on the ground all bruised up; it didn't seem like we needed them."

"I see." Ward looked the man over with a critical eye. None of the injuries had been particularly serious, but they were undoubtedly painful. Ward did not like boxing. He had tried it in school and, after a brief trial period during which he was repeatedly flattened by a seemingly endless parade of whirling fists, he decided he would never again have anything to do with the sport. He had not yet had cause to regret his decision. "He'll just need stitches for this one gash on his arm," he said, moving to the counter for morphine. "It looks pretty neatly cut--are you sure they weren't armed?"

"Well, he tried to make it through a broken window at first--"

"But Holmes was too fast or something, right," said Ward, turning back to his patient. To tell the truth, he was more than a little relieved for an excuse to give the criminal a dose of morphine. Even unconscious, he was frightening. "So how did our dexterous detective fare in all this?"

"A couple bruises--nothing serious. He's outside if you want to talk to him." Gordon gestured to the other room.

When Ward was finished he found Watson, who had apparently escaped relatively unscathed, doing his best to clean a cut on Holmes' forhead while the latter spoke with Lestrade about the case. The Inspector was looking thoroughly confused. Watson noticed Ward's entrance and went to meet him. "I trust it was nothing too serious?"

"No, no, nothing too serious, Doctor--a couple stitches, mild concussion... and of course he'll think a building fell on him when he wakes up, but that can't be helped. Happen a lot, does it?"

"Oh, well, it's a dangerous business." Watson rolled his eyes. "Although I do wish Holmes wouldn't challenge prize-fighters as a side hobby."

"He challenges prize-fighters as a side hobby?" echoed Ward. "Why?"

"It keeps him in training, I suppose." Watson smiled. "I remember a time soon after we met when he came back to Baker Street covered in bruises--I'd thought he'd been attacked by some sort of mob until he told me he'd challenged a man called McMurdo. He fought three rounds with him."

"And he won?"

"Oh yes. Holmes is an excellent boxer." Watson looked back at the detective with a mixture of pride and resignation. "Heaven knows I've patched him up after enough fights--not all of them in the line of duty, either. I wish he'd pay more attention to his health, though--when he's on a case he runs himself ragged."

"Why does he keep up with it, if it's so dangerous?"

"Holmes is the best detective in all of England, Doctor. Possibly further. If he were to stop working, it would be a great loss to law enforcement. In any case, he likes what he does--he's not going to stop for something as trivial as dangers."

"I suppose if you're dedicated enough to your profession it makes it worth the risks it comes with," said Ward.

"For him it certainly is." Watson grimaced. "If only he didn't add the extra risks by challenging professional boxers as well."

"Oh come Watson," said Holmes, joining them. "One must keep in practice--I should hope tonight's escapades proved that these skills can be invaluable."

"I'll concede to that, I suppose." Watson gazed at his friend's injuries with a critical eye. "If you're done with Lestrade we should be heading back, Holmes--I'd like the chance to _properly_ clean that cut, and you should keep ice on your eye for a while."

Ward watched them leave. A brilliant detective he may be, but he was also only human. Holmes was the kind of person who threw himself into a situation whole-heartedly, no matter what the risks. As his name had become more widely known, more people were going to him for help--and more dangerous situations would present themselves. If there was ever a man that needed someone to keep an eye on him, it was Sherlock Holmes.

It was funny, how the world worked. Because if there was ever a man suited for keeping an eye on Sherlock Holmes, it was Doctor Watson.

* * *

_A/N: I know I used the name Gordon and focused a lot on Holmes' fighting skills, but I'd just like to point out that he still is NOT the Batman. I promise. I've just... been watching Batman a lot lately. Along with the fluorescent-leotard-clad women, although that was not my fault.  
Looking this over, I think Ward is a bad influence--Watson kept on slipping out of character when he was talking to him, and I don't think I really found his voice as much as I'd like to. I know this one is rather short and uninteresting, and it just sort of... throws the explanation in there, but this was the only idea I had #prods muse# #muse snores#  
And, I confess, it gave me an excuse to use Doctor Ward, who I just have way too much fun with :D  
I know it's very fluffy-friendshippy at the end, but I couldn't help it--if I can't think of an ending I ALWAYS turn it into fluffy friendshipness :P_


	18. Keeping Quiet

**From Chapter 5 of SIGN, I quote (Watson regarding Bartholomew Sholto's grounds): _"It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work."  
_**_**"And from the same cause," said Holmes.  
**_**Yet another of Doyle's interesting discrepancies...in BOSC, which was set post-marriage, the word Ballarat is mentioned as a major connection in the case...and yet we hear no more about the fact that Watson obviously had been there. Holmes in SIGN is not surprised to hear this; obviously he knows Watson was in Australia at some point, but that is never brought up in BOSC. ****Address this plot hole however you please.**

_A/N: My muse is awake again, but still very grumpy about being repeatedly shaken and asked for ideas. I'll just keep feeding him sugar; that usually works for me. :)  
This is one of my more AUish prompt answers..._

* * *

"Can you explain something to me, Sherlock?"

Holmes met his older brother's gaze across a table in the Stranger's Room. He was visiting Mycroft at the Diogenes club for want of anything else to do. He had no cases, and Watson was away taking care of some business, leaving him listless, alone, and bored out of his mind. He had not resorted to the drug yet today, for his body craved movement or action of some sort, and in any case Mrs. Hudson was going through one of her annual bouts of cleaning and he decided that not being in her way was the best course of action. So he had gone to see Mycroft, who seemed to pick up on the fact that he was acting as a sort of diversion for his younger brother, but had declined to comment on the fact. They had sat mostly in silence until now.

"What is it you need explained?"

"I am just curious--Is Doctor Watson extremely prone to distraction at inopportune moments, or is he just an imbecile?"

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Mycroft, we would be in the midst of a heated argument right now if we did not both know that you know he is neither. Now what are you driving at?"

"I've just been reading this." Mycroft pulled out an old copy of the Strand magazine. Sherlock internally rolled his eyes. "It struck me," said Mycroft, "how completely absurd it was that there were these references to Australia--Ballarat, no less--where the good Doctor spent time in his boyhood according to his account of the matter of the Sign of Four. And yet he was completely at a loss throughout the matter. More so, the two of you did not once speak with each other about Ballarat, though it was clearly of importance in the case."

The younger Holmes leaned back in his chair, outwardly showing no sign of expression, inwardly dearly wishing his older brother had kept his mouth shut just this once.

"It just seems highly improbable, Sherlock."

Holmes casually lit a cigarette, not meeting his brother's eyes. "It is highly improbable."

"Then what is the explanation?"

"Do you really need to know?"

"It is suspicious enough that you are not telling me, Sherlock."

There was no answer.

"I could always ask him myself, you know."

"He would not tell you."

"Then your explanation will have to suffice, brother."

Sherlock glared at his inconveniently perceptive elder brother. "I do not see why it is of such great importance, Mycroft."

"I am curious as to the truth of the matter."

Holmes sat very still for several moments. "The truth, brother?"

The elder Holmes nodded.

"The truth is that he solved it before I did."

Mycroft had not been expecting that, though later he wondered why. "What?" he ejaculated, less dignified than he had meant.

"He solved it before I did," Sherlock repeated.

"...Oh." Mycroft cursed himself for his sudden bout of inarticulateness. After all, what had he been expecting? It made perfect sense.

Sherlock seemed to pick up on his thoughts. "It's the way he writes his stories," he explained. "He makes me out to be the great detective, and himself to be the mere spectator. You never expect him to make connections on his own. That's why you're so surprised."

"Well... it makes sense, anyway." Mycroft leaned forward as much as he was able. "Care to tell me what really happened?"

* * *

My comment to Lestrade that the description I gave should lead him to the killer was genuine. I had no doubt that finding such a person should present no great problem--it was less helpful than knowing the man's exact identity, of course, but I was sure it would suffice.

I was, however, extremely irritated that I could not find anything more definite.

Watson, conscious of my moods as always, allowed me to stew and ponder in silence for some time. Finally I could take it no longer. "I am so close, Watson," I burst out. "I just cannot seem to come any closer. I know there must have been some connection to his son's marriage. I _know_ it, I can _feel _it. I just can't place the connection. I cannot find a motive. Turner was against it, the man's son was against it--but reason enough to kill a man, that I cannot find." I began to pace. "It all boils down to whoever he was calling to that day, when his son mistook his call of "cooee" as a signal to him. If we can learn who that is, Watson, I am sure it would tell us who the guilty party is at the same time."

Watson seemed to pause for a moment, then spoke, but with a note of reluctance in his voice. "I've been thinking about that, Holmes."

"And what have you come up with?" I asked, almost out of habit. These conversations had become common between us, a familiar routine we had both grown to know and love. Today, however, he sounded uncertain.

"I--well, the man had lived in Australia, Holmes," he began.

"He did, Watson."

"Well, I've been thinking about what the boy said--his father was calling "Cooee" to this unknown person. That's a particular call that originated in Australia--he taught it to his son and they used it to call each other--but this man didn't know his son was there, so he must have been calling to someone else--someone to whom the call would mean something--someone who had been in Australia as well."

I stood perfectly still and stared open mouthed as Watson pushed on, speaking faster now, as if making sure he said the thoughts aloud before they disappeared. "His son said his dying words were some sort of reference to a rat--when I read about it, I didn't think anything of it, but I kept on hearing it mentioned--and it started to sound familiar. And then I realised there were lots of places in Australia that end with "-arat"--Such as Ballarat. And if he was making a reference to Ballarat when he died, it would have to do with his killer, wouldn't it? And the person who fits that description is..."

"Turner," I breathed, staring at him. "My God, Watson."

* * *

"It's hardly unreasonable for him to have noticed it before you, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "After all, he did spend some time in Australia--Many elements of the man's life would have been familiar to him in a way that they would not be to you. Not to mention you first saw the fragment "arat" in print as "a rat," and continued to think of it as two words."

"Of course that is true, Mycroft. But I should have seen it! I had all the information I needed, I just failed to put it together."

"So tell me," said Mycroft, "Why did he not write up the true account?"

Holmes ground his back teeth and stared at the tabletop. "I don't know," he admitted finally. "He said it was for the readers--they were reading the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and read his accounts for the mysteries--they would want to see the case played out and solved by me."

"Rubbish."

"Of course. But he wouldn't give me any other answer. Probably he was worried it would bruise my pride."

"Well. It would have."

The younger Holmes glowered. "Perhaps you are right," he growled through gritted teeth. "But even so--he reasoned it all out remarkably well, and he rarely gives himself any sort of credit in these accounts of his. I would never have prevented him from revealing the truth of the matter."

"No, you wouldn't have." Mycroft studied his brother. "But he changed the story all the same. Perhaps he did it because he knew you would not have stopped him if he had chosen to do otherwise."

"Must you always speak in riddles, brother?"

"It's not a riddle, Sherlock. Just give it some thought. He's your friend."

Holmes gave it some thought. Watson would never explain his reasons, of this he was certain. But perhaps there was something to what his brother said. _My faithful Boswell--will I ever reach your limits? _

There were some cases, he decided, that could remain unsolved.

* * *

_A/N: Watson really doesn't give himself enough credit--so I gave it for him._


	19. Toby

**Prompt: Chapter 6 of SIGN is notable for the introduction of dear Toby...who surprisingly we never hear from again, despite his popularity in fanon. You may choose one of two today: Either describe when and how Holmes first met the interesting character _Sherman_ and so met Toby, or tell us why we never hear of Toby again (without having the dear fellow run over by a cab or something, if you want me to read it).**

_A/N: My first thought upon reading the prompt was "Oh no he must have gotten run over by a cab or something!" and THEN I read the parenthetical comment, and burst out laughing. I had a tremendously difficult time figuring this out--I wanted to do the first one but at first wasn't getting anything; then I tried the second one but the only un-cab-related answer I could think of involved aliens.  
(You would really be amazed at how many problems aliens can solve, though. Watson's wound moves from his shoulder to his leg? Aliens. Ballarat references? Aliens. Watson's indecipherable dating system? Aliens. Mary calles Watson "James?" Aliens. Trust me on this. #readers shake heads# No, I'm serious. I've actually given this a lot of scientific thought. #readers point at Doctor Who desktop background# No no no--It's not just that I've been watching Doctor Who all day--I mean ACTUAL actual scientific thought. #readers shake heads again# Oh, never mind...)  
Anyway, as you can see, I finally got something down. (Ta-daa)._

* * *

There was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ more infuriating than knowing who your man was and being unable to find him. He had been at the scene of the crime just five minutes ago, and I had gotten there just five minutes too late. Blast it all.

Sherman was paying me very little for this case. This was not surprising; the fact was that he had very little funds had been one of the interesting points of the case. He lived alone with a variety of animals, and had absolutely nothing worth stealing, and indeed nothing was stolen. So why, why had someone broken into his house at night, causing every animal in the place to wake and raise a din loud enough to shake the foundations of the earth? It could not have been to steal something of value, for there was nothing. It could not have been to do harm to the man himself, for the miscreant had walked straight past Sherman's bedroom. So what was the cause?

I had tracked the man for several days now, and had come within five minutes of apprehending him. The man was Sherman's father, who was searching for certain incriminating documents kept unknowingly by his son. They were worthless to anyone but a member of the family, which is what lead me to suspect the father. But as I was busy locating him he had returned to Sherman's residence. When I realised where he was I had rushed back to the house only to find him gone again. Thankfully he had not managed to obtain the documents, but he had gone again, and I now hadn't the slightest idea where he could be.

Sherman emerged from behind a pile of cages, where he had been checking on the ferret. "He's right gone then, Mr. Sherlock?" he said.

That was the infuriating thing about Sherman--or "Mr. Sherman" as I was obliged to call him--he insisted on using first names on all occasions. Never mind that we had never met before he approached me about this case--he was calling me "Mr. Sherlock" from the moment we shook hands, and he did not tell me his last name--I assumed it wasn't "Sherman." He had, at least, had the decency to retain the prefix. Other than this little quirk, however annoying I found it, I had to admit he was an excellent client--a bit slow, perhaps, but he gave an excellent summary of the important points of the case, and had intuition which many of my clients lacked.

"I'm afraid he has, Mr. Sherman," I answered, poking moodily at a lizard's cage. "It's a pity there's no way to trace him from here. We know the fellow only just barely escaped from that housefire--the witnesses say he went running out moments before the whole house went up. As it happens it was an accident, but he'll be paranoid now--perhaps he'll come back. But not today."

"And there's really know way to trace him from here?"

"I suppose we could ask around; see if a slightly charred man has run past recently," I said sarcastically. "No, if anything we've got to find out where his hiding place is--he'll have gone straight back there."

"Well, what if we set a dog on him?"

I was about to give him an example of my best sneer when something registered in my mind. "You mean... give a dog his scent, and use it to track him?"

"Well, a man's just been in a fire, a man's gonna smell pretty burnt," said Sherman. "Supposing we were to track him with a dog?"

"And how would we come by such a dog?" I asked.

"Ah, well, there you're in luck, Mr. Sherlock," said Sherman with a grin. "I happen to have just such an animal here. His name's Toby. Let me fetch him for you..."

The dog that Sherman lead back was among the ugliest I've ever seen. I confess I placed very little faith in him at the beginning--The dog did not look particularly intelligent. But Sherman sacrificed one of his handkerchiefs, singing it with a match and giving it to Toby to sniff. We then allowed him to sniff around the room for a bit and somehow, amongst all the animal smells in the room (which were quite overhwelming) he managed to pick up the same scent.

"What'd I tell ya?" said Sherman gleefully, as I stood and stared. "Got the best nose in the business, Toby has."

* * *

We wrapped the matter up extraordinarily neatly, thanks to Toby's help. I hadn't thought it possible, but we found his hiding place in no time at all.

Mr. Sherman was quite appreciative of my help, and expressed that appreciation in no uncertain terms. "I've never seen anything like it, Mr. Sherlock," he said, wringing my hand. "I didn't even know the old man was still alive. But you, you were on his tail just as quick as a wink, and we've got the whole thing sorted out now."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Sherman," I said. "It really was rather commonplace.

"Now, about your fee..." Sherman coloured slightly and looked at the floor.

I was ready for this one. "Do not worry yourself, sir. I would be perfectly happy to take no reward in this case." Well, not _perfectly _happy, but I would be willing.

"No, sir, I cannot ask that of you. I've never accepted any sort of charity before, and I'm not going to start now."

"Well then," I said, casting my eye on the ugly but quite useful dog sitting between us. "Perhaps I can suggest a different sort of payment."

Since then I have had the loan of Toby whenever I needed him, and he has seen me through several cases without fail.

* * *

_A/N: FF was making me CRAZY the entire time I was writing this! Something about the horizontal lines makes the cursor jump to the top of the page--and then suddenly I was unable to start a new line from the end of the horizontal line! AARGH!_

_Anyway... that's my tale of woe... _


	20. So very simple

**Prompt: An interesting exchange in Chapter 7 of SIGN:  
**_**(Holmes) "You have not a pistol, have you?"  
**__**"I have my stick."  
**_**_"It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns nasty I shall shoot him dead."  
__He took out his revolver as he spoke, and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the right-hand pocket of his jacket._**

**Interesting for several reasons - one, why does Holmes carry his bullets separate from his gun? (Sorry, I keep seeing Barney Fife flashbacks here, lol) And why only load two of the chambers?  
Second, we always talk of Watson being the better shot, which is certainly possible. But if you think about it, Holmes could not have been bad himself if he was able to make the initials _V.R._ on the wall of the sitting room. Why do we rarely hear of Holmes's shooting anything in the Canon, when from this exchange he was obviously more than capable and certainly prepared to?  
Obviously, each of these ideas would take a different mood, humorous or potentially otherwise. Your choice.**

_A/N: My apologies for the extremely late update, everyone! I was writing essays, of all things. I mean, nonfiction? Come on. But, you know, it's for school (even though school hasn't even STARTED yet) so I kinda had to do it... but I'm back now! #readers groan# _

_This really doesn't have a plot, I'm afraid... I tried to explain in an interesting way, but nothing actually happens, really._

* * *

The thing about bullets is, they can kill so very easily.

Sherlock Holmes knew this well. He had seen it, as in his profession it was really rather difficult to keep away from it. It had struck him, in an unusually poetic sense, how easy it would be to end a man's life with a single bullet. Guns could be used in crimes of passion, they could be used in premeditated murder. They could be fired accidentally (which is why, when he carried a gun with him, he never loaded the chambers if he did not have a very good reason to believe that he would need to use it). But accidents did not happen as often as murder.

It was different, for a man to be killed with a gun than with a knife, or with a more creative tool of destruction. They could kill, certainly, but there was not that sense of detachment that was present with a gun. And guns just made it so very, very easy.

Holmes knew that as far as self-defense went, it would be wise to carry a gun at times, and be able to use it. And indeed he was an excellent marksman--he made sure of that, with his semi-regular practice (which was rather detrimental to Mrs. Hudson's walls, but proved that he was indeed capable of hitting his mark). But the psychology of the gun was what made him wary of it, even when it was in his hand. When he faced dangerous criminals he always made a point of taking them alive whenever possible. He armed himself with a weighted stick, usually, which served well as a weapon of defense, or he simply resorted to his fists, which were formidible on their own. He used his pistol as a club more often than he put it to its intended purpose.

Because it would be so easy to shoot the criminals--they were dangerous men, they were ruthless and cruel, and they would probably think nothing of killing him. Of course, he would be perfectly justified in using his gun to shoot down a man in self-defense. Many of the occasions in which he faced criminals called for self-defense. But still, he hesitated, because he knew how easy it would be to use his gun, to shoot and kill other men. Shooting into a wall is completely different from shooting into a person.

Holmes was not afraid of many things, but something about using a gun raised emotions from within him that he did not particularly wish to confront. He could see the line between necessary measures and needless killing, but he was afraid, deeply afraid, that when the time came the line would blur, and he would act more hastily than he ought.

He was afraid that wanting to pull the trigger and needing to pull the trigger would blend together, and he would make the wrong choice.

Holmes was careful with his weapon--he carried it with him, but he did not take it out with the intent to use it. When he did load it, he was often in the habit of loading only two of the chambers--if it came to shooting, he doubted that he would need a second shot, but he was certain that he would not require more.

Then Watson came, and Holmes found in him a solution--here was a man who had been to war, and who understood necessity. Watson was a kind man, and he did not like to see needless death any more than the next man, but he knew that when the time came for action, he would always know when it was necessary to pull the trigger; when it was necessary to wound or kill with the ease that a gun brought. For him, the line would never blur, because Watson was a man that would never hurt another human being unless he was left no other choice.

For a long time, Watson was the man to carry a gun in the partnership. Holmes was happy to keep it that way. He never admitted his fear to anyone, not even himself, though he knew that it was there. Perhaps someday, a voice inside him whispered, you will make the wrong choice. You will shoot because it is instinctual; because you want to, not because you need to. It was this lack of confidence in himself that made him wary of pointing guns at people, even dangerous people, who it may or may not be necessary to shoot--perhaps to kill.

And then there came a most singular, dangerous case, a case that was to Holmes both strangely humerous and utterly terrifying; a case that cost one man his reason, cost Watson a blood-letting, and cost yet another man the penalties of the law. The moment Evans fired those two shots, the moment Holmes saw Watson cringe, heard him let out an unconscious ejaculation of pain, he was already moving, throwing himself towards the counterfiter and bringing his pistol down on his head. His mind was blank during those moments--or perhaps it was simply too full, overflowing with a thousand scenarios, each more horrifying than the next; Watson had been hit, if Watson was hurt, if Watson was...

The next moment he was at Watson's side, leading him to a chair--the wound is in the leg, it cannot be life threatening, it can't, but what if--"For God's sake, say you are not hurt!"; rather more frantic than he would later care to admit.

"It's nothing, Holmes; it's a mere scratch."

Relief--pure, unadulterated relief. He was all right, everything was all right. What would he have done... Holmes rounded on Evans, the criminal who could so easily, so _easily _have taken Watson from him, who would have killed the best man Holmes had ever known without even knowing or caring what it was he was taking--Holmes pointed his pistol at the man who, to his mind and every shred of his insinct, did not deserve to live.

And he did not pull the trigger.

He pointed his gun at Evans with a steady hand, easily keeping him covered, but not shooting--not even contemplating shooting. And he knew that he would not kill Evans, and that he was in control--the line, which he had been so afraid would blur, remained crystal clear in his mind.

Another fact was crystal clear in his mind as well. "If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive."

Much later, sitting back in the comfort of Baker Street, the night's events as distant as a dream, Holmes held his gun in his hands and pondered.

* * *

_A/N: ...That's not what my rough draft says at all. _

_Well, it still doesn't have a plot, but it's entirely different now. In my defense, I wrote it while I was asleep. I guess it can mean whatever you want it to mean... Sheesh, it wasn't supposed to be that dark. Anyway, um... I promise the next one will be more fun._


	21. A Question of Balloons

**From chapter 6 of SIGN, Holmes makes an interesting observation about Small's trail disappearing:  
****_"What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes."They surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon."  
_He says this as if the idea of a balloon came as quickly to his mind as a cab did, and Watson does not seem a bit surprised by his choice of transportation...  
Holmes + Watson + hot-air-balloon--you decide.**

_A/N: Can this be my answer?_

_--_

_Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson were in a hot-air balloon. Suddenly a huge gust of wind blew them far off course. They were quite lost, and looked for someone to give them directions. They spotted a man on the ground and lowered the balloon. "Excuse me, sir," Holmes called, "Can you tell us where we are?"_

_The man thought for a minute. Then he looked up and said "Gentlemen, you are in a hot-air balloon."_

_Just then the wind picked up and the balloon was blown high into the air, away from the man on the ground. Holmes turned to Watson. "I deduce, my dear Watson, that that man was a mathematician."_

_"My goodness, Holmes! How do you know that?"_

_"For three reasons. First, he thought for a minute before giving us his answer. Second, his answer was absolutely correct. And third, his answer was of no use to us whatsoever!"_

_--_

_#bow# Thank you, thank you. That's a joke I read on a Sherlock Holmes website years and years ago--I have since lost the site, so I just wrote this down verbatim--you get the gist, anyway. Apologies to any mathematicians--I did not write the joke._

_Anyway, on with the story! Er, "balloon" starts with a "B," so it was difficult to resist the 221B-ness radiating from the prompt..._

* * *

"Absolutely not, Holmes."

"Oh come, Watson—"

"Forget about it."

"We simply need to see if it is possible—Mr. Vigny will be with us the entire time; he's landed balloons in all sorts of dangerous situations."

"I do not wish to find myself in 'all sorts of dangerous situations,' Holmes. Call me a coward if you wish, but I choose to avoid dangerous situations when possible."

"And yet we share rooms."

"So I'm not very good at it. I can still spot an overly dangerous situation when one is presented."

"Watson, it is a perfectly simple matter. We simply need to determine whether or not it is possible to land the thing where Jones says he did."

"Can Vigny not determine this by himself? He's the balloon expert, after all."

"Vigny will be too busy flying to be going about swinging things from the basket. Come, Watson, it will not take long."

"I don't care how long it takes, Holmes, I am not doing it."

"It's hardly dangerous, Watson."

"If I understand you correctly, one of us will be hanging a significant amount out of the basket, though we will be at a significant height."

"Well. Yes."

"No, Holmes."

"Watson—"

"Forget about it, Holmes. Nothing you can say could possibly convince me to go anywhere near that blasted balloon!"

* * *

_A/N: You know you're in trouble when your author's note is longer than the story itself... #embarassed# And BONUS POINTS to anyone who knows what Vigny's first name is! _


	22. Soul Music

**From chapter 8 of SIGN, I quote:  
**_**(Holmes) "Look here, Watson; you look regularly done. Lie down there on the sofa and see if I can put you to sleep."  
**_**_He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air -- his own, no doubt, for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation.  
_We joke fanonically about Holmes's horrible violin solos, but obviously the man was not half bad. I'm curious as to why we don't hear much of his actual improvisation, Canon or otherwise - being a musician myself I can attest that improvising is no easy feat; it takes a deal of skill on any instrument. Bring to light something about that neglected aspect of Holmes's musical abilities.**

_A/N: For those who were curious, Vigny's first name is Victor, and he's a balloonist and my absolute favourite character in Eoin Colfer's fantastic novel _Airman_. So technically that last chapter was a crossover :) _

_This was one of the hardest prompts to answer. I may have taken some liberties; I know that having an unusual talent for observation and deduction does not mean extraordinary intelligence in all respects, but the Holmes boys have always seemed like the type of people who were irritatingly intelligent in their childhood. Mycroft in particular has always struck me as the kind of person who was born at age fourty intellectually. And, of course, you can't be as observant as he and Sherlock are without picking up on things quickly, which would certainly make them more intelligent than most children their age. So that's how I tried to write them here..._

* * *

Most parents wish for their children to radiate intelligence. They fuss over how very precocious their little darling is, and brag to other parents about their son's exceptionally high marks and clearly keen wit and intellect. Most parents revel in the moments when their child displays his full intelligence.

The parents of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes dearly wished that their sons would, for once in their lives, feign idiocy.

It was rather disconcerting for a visitor, upon getting on their knees to Mycroft's eye level and asking how he was in their best patronizing voice, to be answered quite clearly and intelligently, occasionally making use of vocabulary with which the adult was not familiar. Even more disconcerting was it for the unfortunate adult to come across Sherlock, and be told several facts about his own life by the child that he was certain were not readily apparent. Sherlock did not, of course, have as fully developed a sense of deduction as he would later in life; nor did he have the breadth of knowledge necessary to come to every conclusion there was to be made about a person. His talents seemed to suffice, however.

"It was perfectly obvious," Sherlock complained to Mycroft one evening, after having been scolded for rudeness and telling false tales (he had not been telling false tales; Mr. Burbank had indeed been in a house not his own that day, and how was Sherlock to know that that was supposed to have been a secret?) "The obvious signs were all there--the shoes, the coat..."

"Sherlock, of course it was obvious," Mycroft responded. He was quite young, and quiet, and already starting to feel world weary. Sherlock had a similar talent for observation and deduction that he himself possessed, and was of course rather more intelligent than the average boy his age as a result, but there were certain social graces which he lacked. "I noticed the signs too; he'd obviously been to a house not his own. You'll notice, however, that I refrained from mentioning it."

Another unfortunate character trait of Sherlock's was his need to know why things happened. More than once his father caught him taking apart pocket watches or engaged in similarly unproductive activities. His mother discovered him going through the rooms of the other members of the household. Despite the scoldings and lessons in what was appropriate behavior, Sherlock refused to learn to put his mind to a better use.

Although Mycroft was far more managable than Sherlock, his mother found his uncanny intelligence somewhat trying at times, and between him and his brother, she was driven to her wits' end on a regular basis. Having precocious children was certainly a thing to be proud of, but there was only so much a person could take. Eventually, after a particularly trying month, their father made it clear to them that things would need to change--their minds would have to be occupied by something more constructive, or their mother would make a very sincere and determined attempt to eat her own young.

Music lessons were the answer, as it turned out. Mycroft was to learn the cello, and Sherlock the violin. The boys did not bother to argue; it had been decided most vehemently by their parents. (Decisions are rarely made vehemently, so when this _is_ the case, you know there it is no good to try to change it). Tutors were found, and instruments purchased, throwing the boys in the path of musical education.

Mycroft's lessons were nondescript at best. He had no enthusiasm for the instrument or for music--he enjoyed listening to it, certainly, but he perfered to leave the actual playing of the instruments to the musicians. He learned fast enough--he did have extraordinary powers of observation, and picked up on things quickly. But he lacked the will to learn, and his tutor eventually gave up on convincing him to feel anything but annoyance towards his cello.

Sherlock was an entirely different matter. His first tutor stormed out of the house in an inconsolable rage after only one lesson, the second stuck it out as long as he could before finally running to the boy's father, claiming that he simply could not take it any longer. The third sent a telegram after a week claiming that he was dreadfully sorry, but he'd suddenly gone quite mad and was no longer qualified to teach young Sherlock. The fourth, after his brief period tutoring the boy, vanished apparently into thin air. His parents eventually despaired of finding him a tutor who would stay with him and teach when Sherlock did not wish to be taught, and allowed the matter to drop.

Despite everything, however, the lessons seemed to have had an effect. Sherlock picked up on the instrument with astounding swiftness and, after a brief period of mutual distrust between himself and the violin, he was able to play quite beautifully. He did his best to keep this a secret from his tutors.

Once the parade of unsuccessful teachers had finally faded away, he found himself taking up his violin and playing as suited his fancy. He began with pieces that he had been given, often learning them and playing from memory. His parents were unsure what to make of his talent, considering the reactions of the teachers, but decided in the end that it was a good thing. Perhaps he would become fameous someday.

Sherlock did not play his instrument regularly. Instead, he took it up when he felt like playing, finding a piece that suited his mood by any number of composers.

It was a combination of an inscrutible state of mind and incorrect memory on his part that lead to the discovery of his extraordinary talent for improvisation. His mood was dark and confused, and he could not quite match it to a perfect piece in his mind. Trawling through his memory, he selected one at random and began to play, but somewhere along the way his memory faltered, and he played several lines of a piece that did not exist, but that fit his current disposition perfectly. He continued playing from his own mind, putting his thoughts to music, and when he was finished he greeted this newfound talent with a mixture of surprise and barely concealed pride.

The violin remained more or less constant in his life--buying himself the Stradivarius was one of the most treasured of his memories. He continued to play his favourite pieces from memory, but more often than not he allowed his mind to leave his body, and composed his thoughts and feelings on the spot.

People often commented that Sherlock Holmes never showed emotion, but they never tried listening for it.


	23. Backfiring

**Prompt: From chapter 9 of SIGN, I quote (from where Watson is waiting for Holmes to return with news about the launch: ****_Could there be, I wondered, some radical flaw in my companion's reasoning? Might he not be suffering from some huge self-deception? Was it not possible that his nimble and speculative mind had built up this wild theory upon faulty premises? I had never known him to be wrong, and yet the keenest reasoner may occasionally be deceived._  
1887 or '88, and Watson had never known him to be wrong? Poetic license in stretching the truth for story's sake, or had Holmes really never been proven wrong on anything before? What would Watson's reaction have been the first time Holmes _was _proven wrong?**

_A/N: Hi all! Sorry for the late update; I was gone all of yesterday and didn't really have a chance to write. I've also been wrestling with the next chapter of Power of the Pen, which JUST ISN'T COMING. #raises eyebrows pointedly at muse# #muse sticks out tongue# Anyway, that's my lame excuse. I have managed to grab a chunk of free time as it flew by and am using it to write up this chapter. If my muse is feeling more helpful by later today I'll see if I can post that chapter of Power of the Pen, too. #prods muse# Until then, I offer this chapter. _

* * *

By ten o'clock, I had become very worried. Holmes had said that he would return before seven, and I had not seen nor heard from him since then. I did not like to worry over his absence, as it was not unusual for him to become absorbed in a case. I would not have been quite so worried were it not for the rain, which was beating down as though it had some sort of personal vendetta with the earth below. I did not like to imagine Holmes out alone in such a storm. Of course, I did not like to imagine us both out in such a storm either. I stared out the window, searching for the figure of my friend through the torrent. I saw no one.

Holmes had gone out to locate a friend and possible fellow conspirator of a certain Mr. Dennis McMurtry, who had gone missing four days previously. No one had seen or heard from him since he left his house that morning. Holmes was quite certain that he was hiding with his friend, seeking to fake his own death to escape from his wife. I, having met the woman when she came to hire us, was certain that this was not the case, for his wife was as kind and amiable a woman as I had ever met, and I could not imagine that anyone would want to leave her at all, never mind go through such a roundabout procedure as that. Holmes did not change his mind, however, and had insisted upon paying a visit to Mr. Arthur Kingsly, whom he suspected of hiding McMurtry.

I looked at the clock for the third time in two minutes. Watiting for Homles has always been the biggest cause of anxiety in my life. If I trusted him to be more careful about his own well-being, it would not be such a worrisome task. As it is, however, I don't trust him to feed himself when he is on a case.

The slamming of the front door jolted me out of my reverie, and my anxiety vanished with the sound. No one slammed doors quite like Holmes did. I heard him trudging up the stairs, and threw another log on the fire. He was bound to need it.

A bedraggled bundle of soaked clothing slid its way into the sitting room. Holmes looked absolutely dreadful, and clearly felt a good deal worse.

"He wasn't there," he growled the moment he saw me.

"For heaven's sake, Holmes, why didn't you come home when it started to rain? I'd be very surprised if you hadn't caught cold by now," I berated him, as he stomped into his room to change. "You could have saved yourself a good deal of the soaking you seem to have received."

"I had to make sure, Watson," came his reply, muffled by the door.

"Couldn't you have made sure some other day? Preferably a drier one."

His response was unintelligible.

I sat in my armchair and waited for him to return. He emerged wearing his dressing gown and a scowl. "He wasn't there," he repeated, slouching in his chair. "The only place he could have gone, and he wasn't there. I was wrong, Watson. I've been wrong the whole time." He glared viciously into the fire.

I was unsure how to reply to this. "Holmes, you mustn't look so down about it," I said finally. "Everyone makes mistakes. Even you."

"No, Watson, I do not. How could I have been so far off my mark? I know he would not turn anywhere else, and yet he was not there. He must have been taken, murdered, perhaps. But what could the motive have been? And how could I not have seen it?" He pounded the arm of his chair with his fist. "How could I be so wrong?"

While I had been skeptical of his theory myself, I did not wish to see my friend beat himself up over this incident. After all, to err is human, and Holmes is human, whether he always believes it or not. "Holmes, really, you shouldn't be so hard on yourself. You'll pick up the trail soon enough."

"But how could I have been so far off?" he exclaimed, looking at me incredulously. "I have been lead astray in the past, but never have I been so utterly in error over a case so trivial. How did this happen?"

"Holmes, listen to me. You cannot truly expect to be right all the time. You are human, Holmes, and humans make mistakes. Would you rather be infallible, or would you rather be human?"

"I should not have been this wrong," was his only reply.

"Come, old fellow, did you really expect to get it right every single time? Without fail? Even with so much uncertainty in your line of work?"

He was about to reply, when a light came on in his eyes, and he stared into thin air for a long moment. "By heaven, Watson, that's it! What a fool I've been! You're a genius, Watson, an absolute genius..." He leapt from his chair and rushed back into his room.

"What on earth are you talking about, Holmes?" I asked, once I managed to stop gaping.

"Kingsly works at a theatre, Watson, and there are old living quarters there. I'm sure of it! I remember it now... Why on earth didn't I think of that before? Of course he wouldn't be at the house, they would know that if someone caught onto his disappearing game that would be the first place to look!"

"You mean you still think he ran away himself?"

"I'm sure of it, Watson!" He ran back through the sitting room and dashed down the stairs. I heard him shouting for a cab outside.

I slumped back into my chair, shaking my head. So much for my lesson in humanity. I was beginning to think it would do him a world of good to be wrong a bit more often.

* * *

_A/N: Hmmm... My muse ran away for the last couple paragraphs. #chases after muse# (he's really being a handful today...)  
Also, as a heads up to all you wonderful readers, I will be starting school in a little under a week, so my updating will not be as regular as it is at present. Once I get back on my feet after the initial shock of being back in school I'll be updating regularly again, hopefully, but there'll be a period of trial and error :P_


	24. Parade of Strangers

****

Prompt: From chapter 9 of SIGN, when Holmes breaks out of his old man's garb into the voice of Sherlock Holmes (speaking to Watson and Jones): _"...Here he is - wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise was pretty good, but I hardly expected it would stand the test."  
_

**Does that mean that, in times past, he used Watson as a test to see if he could see through his disguises? It makes logical sense... ****Use that idea in some form or fashion.**

_A/N: I'm really sorry! I seem to have completely forgotten about updating this! University life recently picked me up and shook me vigorously, so I've also had very little time. And, being a theatre major, I'm obligated to do anything and everything, which means I'm on lighting for one show and backstage for two more. #dies# But now it is Saturday, I have coffee, and it's a billion degrees everywhere so I don't feel like moving beyond my computer. So here is the very late update! And short update..._

_Also, I was missing POTP (already) so I did this chapter in that style :) By the way, have you all read Runa93's lovely one shot about Holmes writing letters? If not, go read it. Right now._

* * *

**An excerpt from the diary of Doctor John Watson:**

I suppose I am thinking too much of a trifle, but it strikes me as rather odd that I can often walk around the city without exchanging a word with anyone, yet today I conversed briefly with a great number of strangers.

I was sitting by myself on a bench in the park, reading and enjoying the air, when an elderly priest came by and sat next to me. We exchanged pleasantries about the weather, and then he excused himself and left. Not ten minutes later an old woman, bent with age, came by, exchanged a few words with me, and left.

This may not seem so strange--after all, it is entirely possible that these people were simply quite open and friendly towards everyone. But it did not stop there--in all the time I was sitting on the bench I held a brief conversation with a beggar, a street musician, an enormously wide, red haired man, a sailor, and an Italian gentleman. It struck me as odd that on this particular day, on this particular bench, such a parade of interesting characters should come by, and I was beginning to feel rather unnerved by the end of the parade.

Holmes had returned by the time I made my way back to Baker Street, but he was absorbed in some chemical experiment, so I could not get his opinion on the singularity of the matter. No doubt it was just a strange happenstance, but it really did seem unusual.

--

**An excerpt from the diary of Mr. Sherlock Holmes:**

I am quite certain that I can count on Wiggins not to alert Watson to the vast array of disguises which I stored in his hideout today. He was paid for his trouble, and had the added bonus of being thoroughly amused by my changes in persona. It was rather distracting to hear his giggling every time I rushed back to change, especially when I struggled with the padding for my disguise as the red haired man for a good five minutes. Next time I know to make him less heavyset.

However, I certainly achieved my objective. Watson did not recognize me on any occasion, and I was able to play the part of every character enough that he did not grow suspicious that I was not who I seemed to be, although I am certain he was becoming fairly unnerved by the end of it. I did not, sadly, get a chance to test my "Old Bookseller" guise on him. Well, it is no matter. Perhaps he will see it someday.


	25. Stranger than Fiction

**Prompt: **

**From chapter 9 of SIGN, after the disguise, Holmes says: _"I have been working in that getup all day," said he, lighting a cigar. "You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know me - especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my cases..." (plural) _There's just one tiny problem with that statement - this is 1887 or 88, and the _Strand_ stories were not begun to see print until 1891. As of SIGN, the only publication we're aware of is that of STUD. Another Doyle error, or are there still accounts out there floating around that no one has seen yet?**

**Did Watson write other stories, and if so, where are they? Run with that idea in some direction.**

_A/N: Well, I've finally done it... here's that chapter. The one I've been meaning to do for ages but never quite got around to... _

_I had an idea for it, but it disappeared, and this came out instead. I'm still not sure what to think of it... it isn't epic, I'm afraid, but it works :)

* * *

_

"My dear Watson, whatever is the matter?"

The doctor snatched his pipe from his desk, moving to straighten a picture on the wall which had been disturbed by the violent slamming of the door only a moment earlier. Holmes had been relaxing in his customary chair when a clearly disgruntled Watson had returned from his outing.

"This, Holmes! This is the matter!" A magazine was waved in the startled detective's face. "Those absolutely…" A valiant effort on the doctor's part prevented some unfortunate language. "Those utterly unpleasant people," he settled for, which had less of the desired effect but was, at least, printable.

Holmes unrolled the magazine. "The staff of the _Spectator?"_ he asked, somewhat confused. "What have they done?"

"Well, you know I didn't get as much as I'd have liked from the _Strand_ when I published _A Study in Scarlet,_" Watson began, waving his unlit pipe. "So I decided to try selling them to another magazine, to see if they would appreciate it more. They seemed quite enthusiastic, as I believe I told you, when I sent them my account of that business with the crew of _Serenity._ Plus, they offered me a bit more than the _Strand,_ so I had them publish it instead. And just look!" He snatched the magazine back out of Holmes' hands and flipped to the relevant pages. "They've published it as _fiction!"_

Holmes studied the page with a furrowed brow. "But I thought you made it perfectly clear that the events actually occurred."

"I did, Holmes! But they seem to have completely disregarded anything I told them about the manuscript I sent! And here it is, printed as though it were just some story I made up, while the business with _Serenity,_ as you know, was altogether too real. Plus, they've spelled my name wrong."

Holmes glanced over the publication again, until he could not contain his laughter.

Watson glared. "It isn't _funny,_ Holmes!"

"I am sorry, my dear Watson. But did I not tell you that your writing was far too romantic? It's no wonder they mistook it for a fanciful tale—"

"_Holmes."_

"My apologies, my dear fellow. It is most unfortunate. I daresay you won't be sending your writing to them again."

"Indeed I shall not." Watson sat, finally choosing to light his pipe. "I have already written up an account of our most recent case, and I shall send it to the _Strand._ At least they take me seriously."

Holmes nodded, preparing to turn his thoughts elsewhere, but something nagged at him. "Er… Watson… you do want the people at the _Strand_ to _continue_ taking you seriously...?"

"Well, of course, Holmes."

The detective smiled. "Then might I suggest that you refrain from sending them that particular account, at least for the moment," he said, glancing towards his friend's notebook. "The case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra is, I think, a tale for which the world is not yet prepared."


	26. Technology and its Infinite Uses

**Prompt: Something about a telephone... I don't actually have the text... **

_A/N: The bunnies came after me in the night.  
_

* * *

  
"Absolutely not, Holmes."

"We did pay for the first three."

"Yes, and I think getting through three telephones is a sure sign that we're doing something wrong, don't you?"

"You always were less enthusiastic about it than I was."

"That's not true!"

"You still sent wires even after it was installed."

"Well... perhaps it was just force of habit. But this is downright impractical, Holmes. I refuse."

"Oh come, Watson! It really does make life much easier."

"Until you get frustrated and shoot the blasted thing."

"That only happened once."

"Once was enough."

"You must admit, it does turn communication into much less of an ordeal. And embracing technology is just another part of these ever changing days."

"We tried embracing it, Holmes. You shot the first one, knocked the second out the window, and used the third to beat a criminal senseless."

"It was the only object readily available that was capable of doing the job. I was disinclined to enter a fistfight considering the knife he held."

"I do admit that quick thinking was necessary, Holmes, but it seems our telephones are subjected to violence more often than we actually use them for communication purposes. It has reached the point where it has become completely impractical to continue to try to use one."

"I thought the last one was quite useful."

"Not in the way it was intended."

"Oh Watson, are you going to give up on technology that easily?"

"Holmes, I do not give up on anything that I think may be worthwhile without very good reason."

"Oh, very well. But I maintain that until they met their unfortunate ends, the telephones of our experience have been extremely good investments."

"Whatever you say, Holmes."


End file.
